


On Ebon Wings, Ere I Breathe

by flamethrower



Series: On Ebon Wings, Ere I Breathe [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, The Crow
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M, Star Wars - Freeform, The Crow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 117,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after the Battle for Naboo, a Jedi wakes up alone in the desert.  His only companion is, of all things, a crow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Book One - Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover of concept only; no characters from The Crow comics, movies, or the t.v. show make an appearance. Jeimor is an original creation based on the ideas introduced by James O'Barr, and in typical crow fashion, is not available for comment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are rocks. Bright sunlight. Hot air, wind.
> 
> The crow is the unusual part.

  
 

_thy unimaginable wings, where dwells the breath of all persisting stars_

_-e. e. Cummings_

 

 

A bright light burned into his eyes.  He blinked at it, and realized that he could see.  The light hurt in a way that was familiar.  He turned his head away from it, surprised to find that he could.  The sun burned now on the side of his face.  His face... 

He reached up, with trembling hands, and traced brow, nose, eyelids, cheeks and chin.  Unfamiliar was the beard that had grown on his face.  Just as strange was the length of his hair.  He ran his hands through it, trailing through locks long enough to reach his chin.

His senses seemed to be awakening one by one.  His eyes were undecided, but his skin was fully aware; besides the sun burning down on him, he could feel wind caressing his body, ruffling his hair, chilling his sun-warmed face.  His skin also told him he was lying on the ground, in loose sand peppered with rocks.  He twitched in response, rolled onto his side.  Less rocks, but still uncomfortable.

Better on the eyes, too.  He could see now, quite well.  The view was not spectacular, composed of the rocks and sand he lay on.  What he saw was as unfamiliar as the length of his hair—he had been on many planets, but this was not one of them.

His nose now began informing him of its assessment:  dry climate, acrid-smelling atmosphere, no green smells to speak of.  If he was alone on this planet, he was probably going to die of exposure before he enjoyed his privacy.

Someone was sniggering.

He normally didn't differentiate on laughter, but what he was hearing was most definitely sniggering.  He got the distinct impression that it was at his expense.  He sat up, cautious, eyes wide as he sought the source.

-I love watching you people wake up- a voice said, followed by more sniggering.  -I swear, the blank staring just makes my day.-

He jerked his head around, in what he was sure was the direction of the voice.  On a nearby rock perched the only living thing in the area, its ebony feathers ruffling in the breeze.  A blackbird. 

-Stupid humans,- the voice muttered.  -I'm a crow, idiot.  Blackbirds are a different species.  They're also just about as stupid as humans are.-

“I see,” he said, even though he really didn't see.  He couldn't be sitting here talking to a bird, could he?

-Hah!- the voice cackled, and the crow cocked its head to regard him with a shiny golden eye.  -You shouldn't be here talking to anyone, but you are.  Shouldn't that strike you as a bit more concerning?-

“Why?” he said, head starting to spin in confusion.  His voice was strong, steady, in direct opposition to his state of mind.  “You're strange enough for us both, I would say.”

The crow fluffed its wings, hopping from one foot to the other in what seemed to be agitation.  -This isn't getting us anywhere.  Usually you fools remember your jobs on your own.-

“Job?” he repeated blankly.

The crow opened its–his–beak and released a sigh.  -What's your name, golden boy?-

“My name is…” he stopped, drawing a blank.  “I—I don't know.”

He had the impression of someone dropping his head into his hands.  -Then it's a good thing we get briefed on our targets, or we'd both be screwed.  Stupid humans.-  The bird twisted its head around to look at him with its other eye.  -Obi-Wan ring a bell?-

He straightened, the name setting off a chain reaction in his memory.  “Yes.  That's right...my name...is Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

That wasn't all he was remembering.  He clambered to his feet, almost tumbling back down onto the ground before he caught his balance.  The position was strange, as if it had been a long time since he had stood on his own two feet.  “I remember—Naboo.  I was on Naboo.”  He cast another glance about the area, raising an eyebrow.  “This doesn't look very much like Naboo.”

-Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!- the crow said, flapping its wings in a pleased manner.  -And you're right.  Naboo's a number of parsecs away, as you people currently measure distance.-

Obi-Wan looked down at himself, fingers tugging hesitantly at the clothing he wore.  It was as familiar to him as this planet was unfamiliar, beige tunics and leggings, worn brown boots.  No belt, no cloak.  Realizing its absence, the lack of a lightsaber on his hip felt wrong.  He felt unbalanced.  His lightsaber—

He sank to his knees as the events of the last few days came rushing back.  The mission to Naboo, requested by Chancellor Valorum.  The Gungans, the imprisoned Naboo.  Hiding on Tatooine because of the hyperdrive.  The boy... 

He shut his eyes.  The Council meeting.  He couldn't help the moan of despair that emerged from his throat, remembering.  His Master had taken Anakin Skywalker as his Padawan, which left Obi-Wan—where?  Adrift, yet still willing to stand by the side of the man he'd called Master for over twelve years, his strong-voiced declaration holding nothing of what he’d truly felt in that moment.  Willing to do anything for the man he’d fallen in love with.

They had returned to Naboo, all of them...and...  And what?  His hand unconsciously drifted back to the place where his lightsaber should have hung.  Lightsabers.  Blue.  Green.  Two blades of spinning red, all three lightsabers dancing together in a blur of memory.

With a sharp cry he ripped at his outer tunic, pulling it over his head fiercely enough to scrub his skin and give his ear a painful yank.  He went after his undertunic, ripping a seam in the sleeve before removing it.  His body was just as he remembered it—scars from hundreds of dangerous missions crossing here and there.  If it weren't for bacta, he imagined there would have been many more. 

There was one scar that was new.  Small and circular, it was just above his heart.  A burn with rough edges, colored a dull ugly red that stood out in stark relief against the rest of his skin.

He touched it with trembling fingers, feeling the smooth, silky skin typical of old lightsaber burn scars.  He didn't have to look to know that there was a matching burn on his back, where the Sith's blade had pierced his body.

He raised shocked, wounded eyes back to the crow.  It hadn't moved, and was regarding him with infinite patience.  “I died,” he croaked.

-Yep.-

“Where—”  He coughed, trying to force words past a now-tight throat.  “Where am I?  Hell?”

-Heh.  Close representation to it, at least for your Republic.  This is Geonosis.  Ring any bells?-

“Geonosis.”  He closed his eyes, consulting his internal map.  Close to Naboo, even closer to Tatooine.  He shuddered.  “So Geonosis is where we go when we die?  I was right.  This _is_ hell.”

The crow laughed, hopping around on its rock perch a bit.  -Well, I can't speak for everyone, but I can tell you this.  You're not in the land of the dead.  Or one with the Force.  Or whatever crap currently featured as the afterlife special of the millennium.-  The crow flapped its wings in a stretch.  To Obi-Wan the bird was beginning to look uncomfortable spending so much time on the ground.

“So, I'm not dead?” Obi-Wan asked, hopeful.  He didn't feel dead.  He was breathing, with a pulse (he took a moment to press two fingers to his wrist, double-checking) could feel, think, smell...  He didn't know what being dead meant, but he didn't think it meant waking up to rocks poking you in the backside.

-Eh.  Sorry, Kid.  You're most definitely dead, pulse or no pulse.  You died on Naboo ten years ago, speared by one ugly Sith.-

Killed on Naboo.  By a Sith.  Obi-Wan blinked in astonishment.  _"TEN YEARS?!"_

-Don't yell at _me_ \- the crow said huffily.  -I didn't stab you.  Though if it makes you feel any better, that Master fellow of yours sliced the ugly one in half.-

“But—but—”  Obi-Wan clenched his hands, counted to ten, and ran himself through the most basic of calming exercises.  He knew that he was beginning to sound rather pathetic.  “If I've been dead for ten years...” he drew in a breath.  “What am I doing here?  Why now?”

The crow went still, looking at him with unblinking amber eyes.  -You remember.-

**Lament**

 

He writhed in the silence, striking out in any direction.  There was nothing to touch, nothing to see, nothing to _feel_.  If this was what was meant by being one with the Force, then he now believed that the saying was highly overrated.  He strained to connect to any thing, any moment, any thought.  What was most on his mind was Qui-Gon, his Master's shaking hands touching and burning his icy face with their warmth.  The despair etched into Qui-Gon's features, even as his Master gathered him into his arms, rocking him as numbness began to seep into Obi-Wan's entire body.  He flinched away from the memory, but memories were all he had in this place.

 _Obi-Wan_ , Qui-Gon whispered, tears falling unheeded down his cheeks.  _Why...?_

Obi-Wan reached up with one trembling hand, touching Qui-Gon's face and catching tears on the tips of his fingers.  Strength fading, his hand dropped away only to be captured by one of his Master's.  Obi-Wan took a moment to marvel at the feeling.  So much warmth.  So much _life_.  He was grateful for that.

Entering the fray only as himself, no longer as the man's Padawan, Obi-Wan had opened himself to the Force.  It came to him, filling his mind and freeing his thoughts.  He had let the prescience that Qui-Gon disdained flow through him.  He had seen his Master's death at the Sith's hands, leaving him and Anakin bereft and alone.  That would have been intolerable, mired in his own guilt with a boy he was not capable of teaching. 

When the opening had occurred in the fighting, he had ducked a blow from the Sith, knowing it would catch his Master instead.  Qui-Gon had tumbled off the catwalk, not him.  It left Obi-Wan alone to bear the fight, to give his Master precious moments of recovery. 

He looked up into Qui-Gon's eyes, so shockingly blue and vibrant it almost took what little remained of his breath.

 _Worth it_ , he thought.  _Worth it.  He lives, I die.  Small price to pay for the galaxy to retain its light_.  He swallowed against his own despair, knowing that he loved Qui-Gon, knowing that he had been right never to speak of it.  His Master's affection had been for a Padawan Learner.  The man named Obi-Wan Kenobi was of little consequence, especially in light of a prophecy.

He took a breath, wanting to speak, not wanting to leave his Master in silence.  “Train Anakin,” he found himself whispering instead.  His prescience, he thought distantly, had very annoying timing.  “He… needs you, Qui-Gon.”  He smiled.  “...like... I...”  He couldn't finish.  His breath was gone.  He shuddered, fighting for air that would not come, and heard his Master calling his name.  Then he was falling away, falling and gone…

Obi-Wan screamed, hunched over in the sand, clenched hands filled with bits of rock and dirt.  He took a deep, rasping breath, blinked grit from his eyes, and unclenched his fists.  His throat felt raw and sore, as if he'd been screaming for a long time.

There was a dark shape next to him.  He raised his eyes to find the crow had moved closer, and was now perched rather precariously on a smaller rock that jutted out of the sand.  -Well?-

“Yes,” Obi-Wan whispered, bowing his head again and letting his forehead rest on the sand.  “I remember.”

 

 

 

 _Please!_ he screamed, feeling as though he was beating himself senseless against an invisible wall.  _PleasePleasePlease!_

 _What a racket,_ someone said.  _You're screaming loud enough to wake the dead, youngling.  And I should know._

The voice was female, warm and comforting.  Obi-Wan went quiet, trying to find the voice's owner.  _Hello?_

 _Hello, youngling,_ she replied.  She was everywhere, even as he was one tiny consciousness in a vast sea of nothing.  _What's got you so worked up?_ There was a pause, and she continued speaking without waiting for a response. _What are you doing here, anyway?  Your place is beyond all this.  You should have passed on long ago._

Obi-Wan didn't have the faintest idea what she was talking about.  _I've always been here.  Well.  Not always.  But I've never been anywhere else since...since—you know._

She sounded amused when she spoke next.  _Yes.  I know.  But you've spent all your time hanging around the borderlands when you should have moved on._

Borderlands?Obi-Wan looked around, or as close to looking around as he thought he was getting.  _I don't see any land_ , he muttered.

She laughed.  _For a Jedi, you're terribly literal._

 _Thanks?_   He wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not.

_Still.  Back to my earlier question.  What are you yelling about?  You've been rather incomprehensible._

_Something's wrong,_ he said.  When she was silent, waiting, he tried to explain.  _I… something feels wrong, in my head.  Out… out there,_ he said, wondering if she would understand where he meant.  He wasn't sure he understood it, himself. 

_You want to go back._

_I'm dead.  I can't go back._

When his mysterious companion spoke next, Obi-Wan had the impression that she was being very patient with him.  _Dearheart, if you're half the Jedi I think you are, then you should realize that there are a great many things that are_ not _impossible.  Answer the question, love._

 _Yes, I want to go back._ Obi-Wan sighed.  _I know it sounds shallow and selfish, but I_ need _to go back.  Something—something is..._ He hesitated, striving to put what he felt into words.  _Something is unbalanced.  I think it's my fault, and if it's my fault, then I need to fix it._

_Doesn't have anything to do with unrequited love?_

Obi-Wan knew he was blushing.  _I have unrequited love, yes.  But I think even if I went back to balance things, it would remain unrequited love._

_Why?_

He smiled.  _He doesn't love me.  And even if, by some perverse miracle, he did love me, it wouldn't be fair._

 _Why?_ she repeated.

_I'm dead.  I'd have to return here.  What right do I have, to give someone my heart and then take it back from them?_

_I think that's rather silly of you.  Love, even love shared only for a moment..._ Obi-Wan felt the equivalent of a mental shrug.  _No matter.  I think you're going to be the first case I've handled in a long time that isn't about vengeance._

 _Jedi do not seek revenge,_ Obi-Wan replied, bewildered.  He still had no idea who he was speaking to, and had just confessed to feelings he had never admitted to anyone without the slightest qualm.  Worse, he felt like he had just passed some sort of test, but he wasn't sure of the subject matter.

 _Admiral quality, that_ , she said cheerfully.  _Especially considering the nature of humans.  You're a very violent lot._

Obi-Wan didn't know what to say to that.  Trained diplomat or not, there weren't many ways to respond when an invisible entity insulted your entire species.  Then he blinked, realizing that the presence was fading.  _Wait!_ he yelled, unable to follow.  _What do I do?_

He felt warmth, a radiant presence.  Light seemed to seep into his mind, and the darkness around him began to fade.  _Silly Jedi,_ she said, voice sparkling with amusement.  _All you have to do is wake up._

 

_It is a very mixed blessing to be brought back from the dead._

_-Kurt Vonnegut_

 

The crow cackled, making soft noises as its beak opened and closed.  -She's great, isn't she?-

Obi-Wan sat back, legs folded under him, and regarded the crow that was still, against all definitions of reality, talking to him.  “I suppose.  I mean, she sent me here.”  He blinked a few times, still dazed from the rush of memory as he reached for his tunics.  

-Bah.-  The crow hopped up to him, then gazed up at Obi-Wan expectantly as he finished dressing.  Obi-Wan held out an arm, and the crow jumped up and clamped its feet around his wrist.  The bird was heavier than it looked. 

Obi-Wan wiggled his shoulder in invitation, and the crow shuffled its way slowly up his arm and settled on his shoulder.  The small talons punctured cloth but not skin.

Obi-Wan stroked one finger through the silky soft feathers, and the crow leaned into the caress.  “You're my guide,” he whispered.

-Pretty much- said the crow.  -I'm just around to fill in a few blanks, keep you from doing anything stupid.-

Obi-Wan nodded.  He had no memory of discussing the crow's ties to him.  The knowledge was simply there. 

  -So, you know what you're doing here now?-

Obi-Wan nodded again as he stood up.  The crow spread his wings for balance.  “I think so.  I'm working mostly on instinct here, so we might do a bit of exploring first.”

-Fine by me.  I've got all the time in the world, Kid.-  The crow blinked its amber eyes and turned its beak into the wind.  -Though you might not.  I hear fighting.-

Obi-Wan lifted his head, straining his ears.  Crows obviously had better auditory skills, so he used the Force to sharpen his hearing.  Then he heard it as well; muted blaster fire, and the hum of lightsabers.  “That...” he said, listening to the myriad blend of distant humming, “...is a _lot_ of lightsabers.”

-Battle royal, huh Kid?- the crow shook itself, feathers raising and settling back into smooth and glossy black lines.

“I suppose so.”  He walked carefully at first, unsure of the weight on his shoulder, until the crow smacked him in the face with a raised wing. 

-You could run at top speed and not dislodge me.  And even if I did fall off, I do have wings.  Come on.  Let's get this show on the road.-

Obi-Wan felt himself smile.  “As you wish,” he said, and set off in a Force-enhanced run.  He hadn't even had to think about it, the Force had flowed to him so easily.  He almost laughed, exhilarated at the speed in which he pelted across the landscape. 

-Holy shit!- the crow cried, and Obi-Wan felt talons pierce his flesh.  _The blood’s going to stain my tunics,_ he grumbled.

And then:  _Who cares about a little blood?  I’m dead!_ he thought, and laughed, and it was the strangest, most exhilarating sense of freedom he’d ever felt.

He came to a stop at the edge of a cliff, not willing to go over at full speed without seeing what he would land on.  He took a deep breath and released it, feeling fresh, like he could run forever.  He could have been strolling through the Temple gardens, not running at full-speed over the natural obstacle course that was Geonosis’ surface.  “What do I call you?”

-You want my name?-

“Well, yes,” Obi-Wan said, eyes catching the outline of a single fighter on the ground far below, the only thing in the confines of the valley that stretched out before him.  The shape looked familiar.  “You're a sentient creature, and you're helping me.  Simply calling you 'Hey, Bird,' seems impolite.”

The crow cackled again, a short caw emerging from its throat.  -Call me Jeimor.  A distinctly male member of the crow family, Obi-Wan.-

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Jeimor,” Obi-Wan replied.  “Even if the circumstances are—”

-Fucking strange.-

Obi-Wan could only nod in agreement before he jumped off the cliff.

-Hey!- Jeimor yelled, launching himself from Obi-Wan's shoulder and spreading his wings.  -Give a guy a little warning, why don't you?-

Obi-Wan laughed, slowing his fall with the Force and coming to a stop, resting on the ground in a partial crouch.  “My apologies, but you did say you had wings.”

He heard Jeimor mutter rude comments about Jedi under his breath as he jogged towards the fighter.  It was triangular in shape, marked in tan and red.  The emblem of the Jedi Order graced the side, and the dome of an astromech droid was visible, tucked in next to the cockpit.  “It's one of ours,” he said, drawing closer to the craft.  The lights on the little astromech unit switched on, and it swiveled its dome head to look at Obi-Wan.  It beeped in warning, recognizing him as an intruder.

He caught sight of the restraining bolt the little droid wore on its head.  “That must be uncomfortable,” he said, trying to make conversation with the distrusting little droid.  The droid beeped a long, mournful tone.  “That's a beautiful little fighter you've got there.”

This time the droid bristled, chirping at him in anger and ending the tirade with a resounding raspberry.  “Relax,” Obi-Wan soothed.  “I'm not here to steal it.  I'm a Jedi—we don't steal from our own.”

The droid beeped, hesitant.

“Yes.  Really.  In fact, I'll even remove your restraining bolt as long as you promise not to blast me into oblivion once I do so.”

-Jedi- the crow muttered, settling down to perch on the nose of the craft.  -You guys would negotiate with a rancor while it was eating you.-

Obi-Wan glared in Jeimor's direction.  “Probably.  Still.”  He reached out and grasped the edge of the fighter's wing.

Images assaulted him, flowing unceasingly through his mind at the contact.

_Platform at the Temple on Coruscant._

_A water world, pelted unceasingly by heavy rains._

_Qui-Gon standing in front of the ship, huddled inside soaked robes as he spoke to the little astromech._

_Asteroids and mind-numbing, fierce explosions._

_Qui-Gon again, speaking to the droid though he couldn't make out the words._

_Destroyer droids._

He gasped and ripped his hand away, wrapping both arms around his chest as he struggled to process what he had just seen.  “Force gods,” he whispered, straightening up as his mind began to settle once more.  “What the hell was that?”

-Sorry- Jeimor said, sounding contrite.  -I suppose I should have warned you.  You're sensitive to psychic impressions now.  People and objects, sometimes even places.  Comes with the job.-

Obi-Wan stared at Jeimor in dismay.  Psychometry.  By the Force, that was one talent he’d _never_ been interested in!  “Will that happen every time I touch something?”  It would be crippling for that to happen in the middle of a fight.

The crow cocked his head, considering.  -Not really.  It depends on some interesting variables.  Usually you won't get the same rush of feedback touching the same thing twice.  The more it involves something important to you, the stronger it will be.-  The crow tapped his beak on the fighter's hull.  -What did you see?-

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, focusing on the flashes of physical memory he'd seen.  Qui-Gon.  He focused on the second image, clearer without the rain.  There was more silver in the beard, definitely more silver in the hair.  It didn't make him look older, surprisingly, just…regal.  It was the only word Obi-Wan could think of.  There were more lines on his face, and there was a tired resignation in Qui-Gon's eyes that Obi-Wan had never seen before.  He felt his eyes filling with tears before he could help himself. 

His Master was here, on this planet. 

 _I can't face him_ , his mind gibbered at him, his sense of place tilting swiftly out of balance.  _I can't, I can't, I can't!_

Obi-Wan slapped his hands together, running through a calming technique and finding his center before his brain could paralyze him.  "This is Qui-Gon Jinn's vessel," he answered Jeimor.  “He's here, somewhere.  Judging by the destroyer droids I saw, probably in trouble.”

-Your Master- Jeimor said, half-closing his eyes.  -Does it involve us?-

Obi-Wan touched the Force, but no advice was forthcoming.  “I don't know yet.”

Reaching down, he picked up a flat, strong rock in his hands, before climbing up on the wing of the fighter.  No images assaulted him this time, for which he was thankful. 

-What are you doing?-

“Doing as I said I would,” Obi-Wan replied, studying the restraining bolt on the astromech droid.  Then he struck it with the rock.  The bolt fell away, and the droid began cheeping, pleased with its new freedom.  “There you are,” Obi-Wan said, patting the little droid.  “Better?”

The droid burbled an enthusiastic affirmative.

He stood and turned, ready to head back in the direction of the fighting.  Agitated beeping halted his steps.  “What?”

The droid chattered at him for a moment, and then the cockpit canopy began to rise.  It was an invitation if he’d ever seen one.  Obi-Wan frowned and looked at Jeimor.  “It would be faster.”

The crow seemed to wilt.  -I prefer my own wings- he retorted.  When Obi-Wan only waited, he sighed.  -Damn Jedi.-  With that the crow made his way up the nose of the fighter with clumsy hops, waiting at the edge of the cockpit as Obi-Wan dropped into the pilot's seat. 

The fighter was roomy for someone of his size, but for Qui-Gon the cockpit would have been cramped.  Obi-Wan took a moment to study the controls.  The basic layout of the Jedi fighter's controls had changed little since his last use of one, and the upgrades, though numerous, were easy to understand.  He began a short preflight, bringing up engines and systems from the stand-by they'd been left in.  The astromech interface screen on the console lit up, filled with the droid's excited narration.  “Pleasure to meet you, R-4,” Obi-Wan smiled.  He had a feeling his list of new acquaintances was going to be rather long before the day was over.  “There's some kind of fight going on several miles from here.  Perhaps you could fill us in on the situation as we fly.”

R-4 scrolled a compliance.  Jeimor looked hesitantly down into the cockpit, cocking his head this way and that.  -Where's the bird perch?-

Obi-Wan couldn't help but grin.  He held out his arm to Jeimor, who jumped on it, and transferred the crow to the small but adequate space behind his right shoulder.  “Hang on to something,” he said, grabbing the pilot's interface and placing it on his head.

-Yeah.  Sure I will.-  Jeimor sounded put-out.  -There was nothing in my job description about _this_.-

Obi-Wan kicked in the repulsors, and felt remembered pleasure as the craft rose into the air.  He'd forgotten that he liked flying—as long as no one was shooting at him, anyway.  [Where should I begin?] R4 asked as the craft rose past the cliffs.  Now signs of an intense firefight were visible several kliks to the south.  Transports were involved, and what looked like vessels of the Trade Federation and… was that the Techno Union army?  _Wonderful._  

“Start ten years ago, but give me information only relevant to the current situation.”

There was a long pause on the display, offset by R4's thoughtful beeping.  Then the astromech screen lit up again as R4 transmitted a lengthy and detailed explanation.  Obi-Wan felt himself go pale as he read through the information.  A separatist movement, led by Count Dooku, had been forming for several years.  He frowned, remembering the slight displeasure that had always been in Qui-Gon's voice when his old Master had been mentioned.  He kept reading while R4 listed the parties known to be involved.  The list was long—far too long for Obi-Wan’s liking.  “The galaxy has gone through some rather significant changes since my departure,” Obi-Wan murmured.

-The more things change, the more things _really_ change- Jeimor said, his voice flat.

[There is a motion on the Senate floor to create an army of the Republic to meet the Separatist threat.  A group known as the Loyalists, led by Senator Amidala of Naboo, has been in strict opposition to the vote.]

“Not surprising.”

-Smart droid- said Jeimor.

“They have to be,” Obi-Wan said, throttling back on their speed as they approached the battle lines.  “Droids need to keep up with a lot of information in their service to the Jedi.”  He read though the last of R4's information.             

[There have been multiple attempts made on her life.  Padawan Skywalker was assigned by the Council to be Senator Amidala’s guardian.  So far I have not been informed as to the outcome of the vote, to be decided three days ago.  My Pilot, Master Jinn, was sent by the Council to track down the identity of those that would wish her harm.  Evidence was traced to Kamino, a hidden planet, where my Pilot uncovered a cloning facility.  Within it is a clone army.  The Kaminoans were certain that the army was created at the request of the Council.  This is not the case, but the Kaminoans were not given this information.]

Obi-Wan's eyes widened.  “Oh, dear.”

[My Pilot also uncovered the identity of the Senator's attacker, a bounty hunter named Jango Fett.  We traced Jango Fett to Geonosis.  Master Jinn went to investigate, returned and sent a message to the Council to inform them that the Separatists were building their army here.  Then he was attacked and captured.  The restraining bolt was placed, and I have received no news since that time.]

-That's a hell of a lot to swallow at once- Jeimor commented, and Obi-Wan felt feathers brush his neck as the crow shook himself.  _Attacked and captured._   Not killed, then.  Not yet.  Obi-Wan resisted the urge to search the Force for his Master.  Better not to. 

“It is indeed,” he said, turning his attention back to the controls.  He topped the next rise, and flew them straight into a war zone.

R4 shrieked in alarm, trying to catalogue the presence of ten different projectiles, all headed in their direction.  Obi-Wan sighed and sank into the Force, piloting them with easy efficiency through the danger.  He banked the craft, dropping low and allowing a droid-controlled fighter to zip past them.  “They're dying,” he muttered, zipping the nimble craft around a lumbering droid control ship as it rose from the earth.

-Who?-

“Jedi,” Obi-Wan whispered.  “Many Jedi.  It's been happening since I remembered.  But it took me a while to remember what death felt like.  And there were so many of them, I couldn't believe that's what I was sensing.”

-Mourn later, Kid- Jeimor said.  -I don't want to blow up.-

Obi-Wan silently agreed.  “R4, is anyone broadcasting data for tagging friendlies?  If they are, translate it to your system.  I want to know who's doing what.  Then broadcast out your own signal so no one shoots us by accident.”

The droid beeped compliance.  Obi-Wan jinked the craft into combat maneuvers to avoid a trio of ships flying in tandem, firing at him in solid lines.  He marked them as droid-controlled ships and activated the fighter's weapons system.  One well-timed shot obliterated two of the ships, with the resulting fireball taking out the third. 

When he glanced back at the astromech screen, Obi-Wan smiled in relief; the Separatist army was not outnumbered, but a vast number of their ships were disappearing as he watched.  He didn't know what army he was fighting with, but the flashes of lightsabers he saw on the battlefield alongside the armored troopers confirmed that he was on their side.

-Don't know?  Bullshit- Jeimor grumbled.  -I think that Senate vote passed, Obi-Wan.-

Obi-Wan nodded, not very surprised, and jerked the craft to the right.  Laser blasts streaked by the canopy.  Obi-Wan grimaced, tucking the ship into a looping dive, followed by the drone fighter on his tail.  The crow stayed silent as Obi-Wan veered to one side, then the other, trying to avoid the blasts that were becoming more and more precise.

Gritting his teeth and hoping the little ship was up for it, Obi-Wan decreased the ship's speed, rolling to the left.  The droid ship sailed past.  He rolled the fighter back to the right, aiming on Force-guided instinct and firing.  The other ship blew apart.

-I'm starting to like you, Kid.-  Jeimor snapped his beak in satisfaction.

“Thanks,” Obi-Wan replied, distracted, his attention focused on a far corner of the battlefield.  He pulled back on the stick, gaining altitude and escaping the worst of the fighting as he banked around.  A speeder, escorted by two small droid ships, was headed east and away from the fighting.  For one clear moment, the Force sang to him in recognition of the next task. 

Without hesitation he followed, accelerating.  He was too high up to be perceived as a threat to the droids escorting the speeder.

-I do believe the battle is the other way?-  Jeimor sounded more interested than concerned.

“We have to stop him,” Obi-Wan replied, reaching out with his Force-sense to get a better feel for why.  He jerked back, slamming up his shields in one of the most complex patterns he'd ever been taught, shuddering in reaction.

-What?-

“He's Dark,” Obi-Wan explained, biting his lip in sudden fear.  The last time he'd gone up against one of Darkness, it had not gone well.  The sense he had received from this one was much more powerful, controlled and modulated in a way that was familiar, if tainted.  “I—I think it's Count Dooku.”

If Qui-Gon was here, then he was already well-aware of his old Master's fall.  Obi-Wan wished he could have spared Qui-Gon that realization—his teacher had been hurt enough by Xanatos' betrayal so many years before.

-Ah, the host departs before the party is over.-  Jeimor's beak clamped around Obi-Wan's earlobe and tugged.  -Relax, Kid.  You're not the same person you once were.  This Count Dork is in for a surprise.-

That surprised a laugh out of Obi-Wan.  “Dork?”

-What, that wasn't his name?  Seems appropriate enough.-

Obi-Wan smiled and coaxed more speed out of the nimble fighter, passing and outdistancing the Count's speeder. 

-Hmm.  We seem to be abandoning the bad guy.-

“I know where he's going.”  His destination had been the Count's primary focus during Obi-Wan's moment of contact.  He communicated with R4, and the fighter went even faster as the droid borrowed power from non-essential systems.  “We just need to get there first.”

[That’s easy,] R4 blatted, unconcerned.

The hangar bay had been carved into the mountain, and was all but deserted as Obi-Wan landed inside.  He popped the canopy, leaving the astromech droid to cool down the ship from its breakneck flight across the desert.  A small craft was the only other thing in the hangar; it was a solar sailer, humming in stand-by mode.   

-What's the plan, Kid?- Jeimor hopped up on the cockpit edge, stretching his wings and giving himself a good shake.

“Disable the solar sailer first,” Obi-Wan replied, running through his limited knowledge he had of that ship type for the quickest way to cripple it.  “Keep him from making it off-planet.  If worst comes to worst, we'll just blow it up.”

-All right.  And the Dork?-

Obi-Wan's lips twisted in a quick smile.  He rummaged around in the cockpit, then pulled the seat down to reach the storage compartment behind it.  “Him I'll need some sort of weapon for.  Or I could just stand there with you on my shoulder, threaten him, and when he laughs himself into unconsciousness we can roll him off of a cliff.”

Jeimor laughed, cawing gleefully.  -A sense of humor.  Bless my stars, the Knight is funny!-        

Obi-Wan stopped short.  “Padawan,” he said, voice frosty.  “The word you're looking for is Padawan.  And really, I'm not that, either.”

Jeimor blinked several times, beak gaping as he turned his head around to look at Obi-Wan.  -Sure, Kid- he said meekly.  -Whatever you say.-

Obi-Wan nodded and hauled the medical kit out of its hiding place.  Next was a container of dried foods, distasteful but edible.  Next was a plain leather case, surface marred, the edges worn soft from long years of use.  He clenched his hands, wondering if touching this object that was so intimately Qui-Gon's would send him into another psychic tailspin.

He was wrong; the sense of images and feelings he got from the case were faint and easy to ignore.  _There's not going to be a weapon in this_ , he told himself, then opened it anyway.  Inside was a change of clothes, folded into the tiny space so well that not even a wrinkle would exist when the tunics and leggings were unpacked for wear.

Sitting on top of the clothing was Obi-Wan's lightsaber.

For a moment he just stared at it, not even breathing.  _That's not possible._  

His eyes traveled the length of the hilt, taking in the handgrips and controls along with the tiny dints and scratches that revealed its hard use.  As far as looks went, it was exactly like his own.  He touched the hilt with hesitant fingers.

 _Oh dear sweet Force, no,_ he moaned, even as the images hurtled through his mind at the speed of light.  He had wielded this lightsaber from the age of fifteen, and he flashed through five years of memories in less than five seconds.  Katas, blaster bolts, Xanatos, his Master guiding him through a new movement when his own feet kept tripping him up, laughing through a multiple spar with Bant and Garen, engagements beyond number, and the Sith, always the Sith that he had battled.  His chest ached with phantom pain.

Gritting his teeth, he forced the rush of memories away.  He wrapped his hand around the hilt and lifted it out of the case. Obi-Wan waited a moment until he was sure that the surge wasn't going to repeat itself, then put everything back into storage like he'd found it. 

He had no idea what Qui-Gon was doing, carrying around his old lightsaber.  It was frightening in a way that he could not explain.  A potential battle with a powerful Dark-sider felt like a carnival ride in comparison to the emotions that discovery unearthed.

Obi-Wan felt a moment's guilt for taking the lightsaber before forcing himself to ignore the emotion.  If he was still around when this day was over, he would apologize to Qui-Gon for the liberty and make sure it was returned.  It was no longer his to keep.

-Better hurry, Kid- Jeimor spoke up.  The crow cocked his head this way and that.  -I hear engines.-

Obi-Wan nodded and leapt out of the cockpit, hitting the floor and running across the bay.  The solar sailer.  He ignited the lightsaber in his hands, his face bathed in the familiar pale blue glow.  Knowing he didn't have time for anything complicated, he settled for general mayhem.  Holding out the lit saber, he locked the power on and lifted it into the air with the Force.

Several quick, exacting cuts, and the ship's sails were useless.  Those weren't needed to fly the ship in atmosphere, only space, so he dipped the blade and sent it whizzing along the underside of the dainty craft.  The lightsaber cut into the ship's delicate innards, taking out the cooling system and several vital power junctions.  It could all be repaired, but it would take time. 

He didn't intend to allow Dooku that time.  The Force was beating against his mind, letting him know with absolute certainty that the old Jedi had to be stopped.  He just didn't have the time to sit down and figure out _why_.

-When you destroy something, you sure do a good job.-  Jeimor launched himself from the ship and flew towards Obi-Wan, flapping his wings in several sharp bursts before settling on Obi-Wan's shoulder once more.  -Time for the big confrontation, Kid.  Ready?-

“No,” Obi-Wan replied.

-Smart Kid.  You'll go far.-  Jeimor shuffled his feet.  One large amber eye looked up at Obi-Wan speculatively.  -Why are you so intent on facing this guy?  Impression I got from your mind is you've never even met him before.-

Obi-Wan made himself stand calmly, unmoving.  Giving in to nerves and pacing would only wear him out before the fight began.  “I had a flash when we saw him.  I'm prescient,” he explained with a terse smile.  “Very annoying talent.  Qui-Gon and his Padawan—”  He blinked back sudden tears.  It still hurt.  It still hurt to be cast aside.

 _Dammit, I was worth more than that!_  

He shoved away the spike of hurt, releasing as much as he could to the Force.  It didn't matter now, anyway.  “Qui-Gon and Anakin were going to face Dooku in this hangar.  They're on their way here now, but Dooku's got quite a lead on them.”

-Okay, so your Master and his scrawny Apprentice were supposed to be the one to kick Dooku in the ass.  Why are you circumventing that?-

“Did you just use real vocabulary?  I'm impressed.”  Jeimor managed to make a sound very much like a derisive snort.  “And I'm circumventing it because they wouldn’t have done very well.”

-No?-

Obi-Wan shook his head, hearing the whine of a speeder.  The Count was very close, now.  “No.  And I don't want anything to happen to either of them.”  For a moment he remembered the smiling young boy Qui-Gon had rescued from slavery.  He wondered what kind of man the boy had grown up to be.

-So you're going to play sacrificial lamb?-

Obi-Wan held his ignited lightsaber by his side, finding his place in the Force as he heard the speeder engines go silent.  Someone began walking in his direction, coupled with the distinct air of Darkness approaching.  “I really hope not.”

**Focal Point**

 

Count Dooku swept his cloak away from his arms, striding across the silent hangar bay.  Things were going exactly to plan.  The Confederation was embroiled in conflict with the new army of the Republic, a great number of Jedi were dead, and war would soon engulf a large part of the galaxy.  His Master would be pleased, even as he was.  Great plans were coming to fruition, setting the stage for years to come. 

Something impinged on his Force sense, and he slowed his pace, wary.  He could see his ship, but not anything beyond it.  The state of the mutilated sails, however, told him everything he needed to know.

Dooku frowned.  He could sense his old Apprentice approaching, with his new Padawan:  the powerful one, Skywalker, whom his Master had high hopes for.  But this development had not been foreseen.

He stepped around a shred of mutilated sail, taking in the sight before him. 

A human male stood there, a full head shorter than he was, dressed in the simple tan garb of a Jedi.  Coppery blond hair grown long framed a bearded face, offsetting a pair of cool blue-green eyes.  His face was smeared with gray and black dust, especially around the eyes, leaving them in intense shadow.  A large black bird perched on the young man's shoulder, shuffling its feet as it regarded the Count with amber eyes that seemed far too intelligent. 

A lit lightsaber was held in the man's left hand, blade pointing down at the floor.  The light threw the young man's features into stark relief, which made the mingled dust on his face all the more disconcerting.  The eyes gazing up at Dooku held fierce determination. 

It was a Jedi Knight facing Count Dooku, one that felt not a trace of fear.  “You don't seem to be one of the Jedi from the arena,” the Count mused, not yet reaching for his own lightsaber.  There was power in this one, restrained, but just waiting to crackle to the surface.  It would be possible to lose to the strength that stood before him. 

Now was the time to test that resolve.  Then weaknesses could be exploited.

The Jedi gave him a quick smile, the expression not reaching his eyes.  “I'm a late arrival, Dooku.”

The Count smiled genially in return.  “I'm afraid you have me at a loss.  You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

“It's not important.”  The young man shrugged, the gesture not dislodging the bird.  The amber eyes that stared at him, unblinking, were beginning to disturb Dooku.  “I'm just here to stop you, and that's all you need to know.”

“Indeed,” Dooku replied, lacing his fingers together and letting calm envelop him like a cloak.  He cast one eye on his damaged ship, seeing the fluids that leaked out the underside.  The young Jedi had crippled his means off-planet, but there were still other avenues of escape to consider.  “I do not think you will succeed, my young friend.”

Another shrug.  “Think what you like.”  Then his head tilted to one side, listening.  Dooku could hear the approaching whine of a transport.  “Two more Jedi approach, Count Dooku.  Between the three of us, you may find escape difficult.”

Dooku smiled, derisive, spreading his hands.  “A Padawan who cannot control his emotions, and my own old apprentice?  I am not worried about the two of them.  Qui-Gon Jinn has lost two Padawans in disgrace and will soon lose a third.”  He shook his head.  “A failed Jedi Master does not concern me.”

Narrowed eyes regarded him.  “Perhaps the failure was not his own.  Perhaps you underestimate him.”

Dooku allowed himself a measure of satisfaction.  He had stumbled across a subject that broke through this Jedi's calm.  It was the barest flinch, but it mattered little; its only importance was that Dooku could use it to destroy him.  “Perhaps,” he allowed himself to agree.  He began to move, and the younger man moved as well.  Jedi and Fallen circled each other warily.  The blue lightsaber never raised, never sought to begin the attack.

 _Weak fool_ , Dooku thought, feeling a moment's sympathy for the young Jedi, still mired in the Order's impractical philosophies.  “You are familiar with my old student, then?”

“By reputation,” the Jedi replied, glancing once at the bird perched on his shoulder.  The bird cocked its head and looked up at the man with one amber eye.  “You might want to find a new perch.”

To Dooku's surprise, the bird cawed once and launched itself into the air.  It landed on a small fighter on the other side of the hangar bay.  Dooku smiled; once the man had been dispatched with, a method of escape had presented itself.  He turned his attention back to the Jedi.  “By reputation only?  Then surely you must have heard that Master Jinn is a broken man, a pale shadow of his former self.”

“I have heard nothing of the sort,” the Jedi replied, cocking his head to one side in mimicry of his bird.  “I had not heard, however, that you speak in bad clichés.”

Dooku widened his eyes, his only acknowledgement of the insult.  “I speak only the truth, my young friend.”

 

 _Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil._  
_-Aristotle_

 

-What are you going to do? Talk him to death?  Slice his head off already and get this over with.-

 _No_ , Obi-Wan replied, forcing himself to breathe deeply, nerves singing and muscles screaming with repressed tension.  _That is not the Jedi way.  I can't just strike him down.  Not like this.  He's not even attacking me._

The crow cawed, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent bay.  -You Force-brained idiot.  What do you think he's doing?-

Obi-Wan switched his lightsaber to his right hand, wiping his sweaty palm on his leggings.  _He's baiting me.  Trying to goad me into attacking him._

Jeimor snorted.  -Got a headache?-

Obi-Wan paused.  His head did feel funny, now that he considered it.  Even as the realization sank in a new, subtle spike of pressure touched his mind.  Through the Force, he could sense his shields were being tested, prodded.  Several blazing points revealed where his defenses had already been wounded.

He growled, frustrated with himself, and gripped his lightsaber in both hands.  "I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work."

Dooku merely gazed at him with an innocent, proprietary smile.  "Do?"

-Damn, but he's full of it.-

Obi-Wan concentrated for a moment, healing over the damaged parts of his shields before creating a new level of the layered shielding over what already existed.  He felt better as soon as he’d finished, his thoughts running free and clear.  Now, he could feel the Darkness that radiated off of the old man, cloying and sickening in its intensity.  He wasn’t going to win a fight with the fallen Jedi in the mental arena; his strengths had always lain elsewhere. 

Obi-Wan raised his lightsaber, decision made, and the tension in his frame eased.  At last, his scattered memory supplied one final, vital detail: Obi-Wan had triumphed against the Sith on Naboo, even though it had cost him his life.

Dooku had trained his Master in lightsaber techniques.  Qui-Gon had passed those techniques on to him.  In a sense, he should be familiar with his opponent's skill with a blade.

Obi-Wan smiled and swung his lightsaber in a tight arc, not surprised when a lightsaber appeared in Dooku's hand, blocking the pale blue blade with a dark red one.  The attack on his shields lessened and then vanished as he thrust his lightsaber at the Darkened Jedi.  Dooku was powerful, but not powerful enough to assault Obi-Wan’s mind during a lightsaber battle.

Dooku was no longer smiling.  "You will die, Jedi."

Obi-Wan laughed, spinning around to deliver a high arc that Dooku parried away.  "That's the most amusing thing I've heard all day."

 

 _When we two parted_  
_In silence and tears,_  
_Half broken-hearted,_  
_To sever for years_

_–Lord Byron_

 

Qui-Gon Jinn leapt off the transport, Anakin Skywalker just behind him.  He landed without a sound, the Force easing the impact.  His Padawan hit the edge of the launch platform behind him with a bone-jarring thud, but uttered no word of complaint.  Lightsabers ignited, they hurried inside.  Dimly, Qui-Gon was aware of the twisted shriek in the Force when their transport was destroyed by an attacking vessel, but most of his attention was focused elsewhere. 

His old Master had, with skillful manipulation, tried to convince him to join the Separatists.  Then, that failing, had attempted to execute him instead.  Despite their early successes in the arena, Qui-Gon was certain that only the intervention of the other Jedi, and then Master Yoda and the clone army's arrival, had saved himself, Anakin, and Padmé Amidala from certain death. 

Qui-Gon cared little about his own death, and sometimes wished desperately for it, but he would not lead anyone else to the same fate.  As he and Anakin entered the hangar proper, he only hoped that he was not doing that very thing now.

He took in the sight of the mutilated solar sailer, letting his eyes roam across the hangar bay.  His own ship was parked on the opposite side of the hangar.  A large black bird perched on the nose, sedate, watching something blocked from Qui-Gon’s view with avid interest.

"Master," Anakin whispered, lightsaber dipping in surprise.  And then, as the roar of wind and laser fire finally faded from his ears, he heard it: the sounds of a pitched lightsaber battle.

"Come," he said, and strode forward.  Anakin followed without a sound, focused and intense.  Qui-Gon could readily admit it, now; he was afraid for the boy.  After dealing with a fallen Padawan, and now a fallen Master, Qui-Gon recognized all too well the darkness that loomed over Anakin like a dirty cloud.  He hoped that he could still reach Anakin, pull him back from the path before it was too late.  He prayed he would be granted the time to do so.

When they came around the corner of the sailship, both men stopped in surprise.  Count Dooku, cloak flying, was engaged in a furious lightsaber battle with someone unknown to Qui-Gon.  He took in the long copper hair, Jedi tunics, and the blue lightsaber that flashed through the air in a flurry of strikes and parries.  The dirt marring the strange Jedi’s face was strange, as if there was a pattern that wanted to emerge.  It was focused around the eyes, spreading outward in dark streaks. 

 

 

Before Qui-Gon could get a closer look, the redhead was on the move, flipping backwards over a pile of crates before Dooku could trap him against them.  Dooku followed in a Force-assisted leap, lightsaber already swinging down in a move meant to cleave the other fighter's head from his shoulders.

The other man ducked aside, eel-like, already moving into a new offensive position as Dooku followed.  Anakin was staring, confusion warring with frank admiration on his features.  "Who in the Force is that?"

Qui-Gon shook his head, realizing his own expression was much the same.  "I don't know.  But we should not leave him to fight Dooku alone."  He took a step forward, only to be stopped by Anakin's hand on his arm.  He glanced at his Padawan, suppressing a brief surge of irritation.

"Wait, Master," Anakin said, but he was not looking at Qui-Gon.  His attention was fixed, his gaze locked with the bird that still sat on the fighter.  Light blue and soft amber eyes stared at each other for a long moment, unblinking. 

"Anakin?" Qui-Gon questioned, looking back and forth in puzzlement.  Anakin seemed frozen, rooted to the spot.  Qui-Gon half turned, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder.  "Padawan?"

His Apprentice jerked, startled, as he looked at Qui-Gon with wide, shocked eyes.  "This fight is not for us."

Qui-Gon dropped his hand in surprise.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw his old Master and his opponent cross the room, lightsabers flashing at a maddening pace.  "What do you mean?"  He looked back; the bird cocked its head, looking at him.  Qui-Gon's eyes were caught by a mesmerizing pull.  Amber seemed to fill his vision. 

Gritting his teeth, he forced his gaze away.  "Something is happening here, Master," Anakin was saying, disengaging his lightsaber and attaching it to his belt.  "I don't know what."

"Nor I," Qui-Gon admitted.  He lowered his lightsaber but did not shut it down, still unsure.  The Force was no help.  The currents of the Living Force were tangled and twisted together.  The future was always uncertain, but now the moment was just as much a mystery.

Dooku was pressing his advantage, hammering furious strikes against the other man's guard and forcing him closer to the hangar wall.  If Dooku thought to trap the younger man, he was wrong.  As Qui-Gon watched, the smaller man turned and leapt, kicking off of the wall hard.   Turning in the air, he somersaulted and landed in a battle-ready crouch a few meters away from Anakin.  He was close enough for Qui-Gon to see the sweat that beaded his skin, soaking his hair.

The Count strode forward, lightsaber raised, and then paused.  He met Qui-Gon's gaze, and smiled with false warmth.  "I see my old Padawan has decided to join us at last."

The younger man jerked around in surprise.  Qui-Gon felt all of the air rush out of his lungs as startled blue-green eyes met his own.  Offset by the dirt that shadowed his gaze, they were wide, fever bright. 

Beautiful. 

_Obi-Wan?_

He shook his head—it couldn’t be!—but the man had already moved on, resuming his dance with Dooku.  Qui-Gon glanced at the lightsaber the man held in his right hand, eyes caught by the familiar design.

The strange Jedi was swinging the lightsaber up to block as Dooku returned to the fray, pushing with all of his strength against the younger man’s blade in an attempt to overpower him.  Again, the mystery duelist would not be so easily beaten, twisting his lightsaber away and forcing Dooku to attack once more.  Qui-Gon felt his stomach twist in sudden revelation.  The lightsaber was familiar because he had packed it away himself, not very long ago.  Obi-Wan's lightsaber, kept for all these years because he could not bear to let it go.

It was just a lightsaber, being put to good use.  He watched as Dooku and the strange man parried a few more times, neither gaining any ground.

It was something private.  Qui-Gon had kept the lightsaber all of these years, a private thing, all that remained of his last Padawan.  No one knew.  Not even Anakin.

It was an intrusion.  He was unprepared for the rage that seemed to explode from somewhere within. 

Dooku’s opponent stumbled in the midst of a block, dropping his guard as he curled in on himself.  Dooku smiled, and with a feral hiss, struck.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan was unprepared for the sudden burst of rage that beat against his shields simply due to the shocking nature of its source.  Qui-Gon tore into him as Dooku could not have, and Obi-Wan crumpled against the onslaught, too hurt and bewildered to defend himself.  Then white-hot, searing pain lanced through his body, and he did crumble, falling to his knees.  For a moment he was blinded by the familiar agony. 

Dooku's laughter cut through his senses, and he raised his eyes.  The Count stood there, lightsaber raised, ready to deliver the killing blow.  Failed.  He had failed again.  He closed his eyes, not wanting to watch his own death a second time.

-Oh, suck it up, you big baby- Jeimor's said, sounding faint and distant.  -You're not hurt.-

 _I am!_ he wailed in response, clutching the wound with his free hand.  He was, he realized in surprise, still holding on to his own lightsaber.  _I can't—_

-No wonder they also called you Obi-whine- the crow said jeeringly.  -Get up and kill him before he kills you.  Burns are one thing, but I don't know if I can heal you a new head.-

Jeimor's words were like ice water dumped on his psyche.  He gasped and launched himself up, catching Dooku's lightsaber on his own.  The pain was gone, as if it had never been, and he threw himself back into the fight with a ferocity that was surprising.

It shocked Dooku even more, who had thought the battle over.  The old human stumbled backwards before recovering, and with a snarl, threw himself against Obi-Wan in a series of offensive maneuvers that were meant to be terrifying in their intensity.

Obi-Wan settled into the fight, countering each one, his balance restored.  It didn't matter what happened to him, or what he would say to Qui-Gon when the fight was over.  He was here to do this, had begged for the chance to put things right, and that was what he was going to do.  The Force was with him, and Obi-Wan let it flow through him like he had never allowed before.

It felt like flying.

Then, instead of continuing with the form that the Count favored, he went back to his own style of fighting.  Dooku fought grounded, lightsaber dancing out to catch his opponents unaware.  Obi-Wan had always favored a style of acrobatic fighting that left him rarely on the ground, always moving.  Combined with the techniques that he had learned from his Master, it was a blur of activity.

Dooku broke away from him.  The old fallen Jedi's calm had disintegrated, and his face a furious mask.  His voice was still smooth and controlled, though, even as he panted for breath.  "You are quite skilled with the blade, my friend, but surely you know that you cannot win."  Dooku flipped the lightsaber over in his hand, oozing self-confidence even as his eyes glittered with Darkness.

Obi-Wan snorted.  "What are you going to do, impress me to death?"  He grinned crookedly, flipping his own lightsaber over in his hand.  It was a favorite move, meant to be flashy, but it was also difficult, and worked as a simple way to convey depth of skill.

-Show off.-

_Not really.  It just looks better when I do it._

-Humans!- the crow snorted, but he sounded pleased rather than disgusted. 

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon was certain that the fight was over when the man fell to his knees, eyes wide in pain and shock.  He was frozen in place, knowing that it was his own fault.  His mind was rampant with guilt, paralyzed by it.  All he knew was that his own anger had somehow distracted Dooku's opponent, left him open for the strike.  The red lightsaber had pierced the young man's body just above the hip, darting in and out before either he or Anakin could intervene. 

All he could think was _I killed him, I killed him again,_ which was ludicrous, because this _could not be_ Obi-Wan.  This man’s physical appearance was just a coincidence.

Qui-Gon watched as Dooku raised his lightsaber for the killing blow and could not think of a thing to do to stop it.

He saw Anakin raise his hand, felt his young apprentice gather the Force to him.  Before Anakin could release the burst of energy, the wounded man leapt up like a coiled spring, lightsaber meeting lightsaber in a sharp crack of energy.

Qui-Gon let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.  He tore his gaze away from the resumed fight only when he heard a familiar tapping sound come from the hangar entrance.

"Master Qui-Gon," Yoda greeted him, walking up to him and leaning on his gimer stick.  "What happens here?"

"Battle royal," Anakin answered, all of his attention fixed on the duel.

Yoda gave the Padawan a quick glance before turning back to Qui-Gon expectantly.

Qui-Gon found he couldn't come up with a better explanation than Anakin's.  "Do you know who that is?" he asked instead.  “The younger man, the one who fights Dooku.  I’ve never seen him before.”

“Could be someone from one of the satellite temples,” Anakin ventured.  The two combatants were locked together, lightsabers creaking in strain as both sought to overpower the other. 

Yoda never answered him.  Qui-Gon glanced back down to find the old Jedi staring in wide-eyed wonder, as if he had never seen a lightsaber battle before.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Locked body to body, Obi-Wan gritted his teeth at the vibrations running through his hands as both lightsabers hissed and crackled against each other.  Dooku's eyes were soulless black depths.  There was nothing calm or controlled about the man now.

Obi-Wan was shoved backwards by an invisible hand.  He recovered his balance only long enough to stagger back again, falling to one knee as a vicious wave of energy washed through him.  He heard himself cry out in surprised pain, all of his extremities tingling as the Dark energy tried to ground itself within him.  He gasped at the attack, but the pain was already fading.  He stood back up, lightsaber raised.

Dooku frowned petulantly.  Obi-Wan smiled; he supposed he was meant to be on the floor, screaming and writhing in pain.  The Count lifted his hand and purple lightning blazed from his fingertips, hitting Obi-Wan before he could come up with any counter to it.  He flinched, but forced himself to remain standing, only taking a single step back in recognition of the assault.  Once more, the pain was fading before it had a chance to take hold.

He glared at Dooku, flexing his grip on his lightsaber to overcome the pins and needles sensation in his fingers.  "Ow."  He glared up at the fallen Jedi.  "You know, that could really hurt someone."

Dooku growled in thwarted fury and raised his hand again.  Obi-Wan tensed, calling on the Force.  He didn't think he'd be able to hold on to his lightsaber if he was hit again.

He felt dark currents of energy stirring, and began to build a wall of energy in response.  It was an invisible shield, enough to stave off the Force-created lightning.  Just because it wasn’t killing him didn’t mean that he wanted to marinate in the sensation.  Too late he sensed the direction of the attack, as rocks were torn from the ceiling above the watching Jedi.

"NO!" 

Without thought he threw his lightsaber at Dooku.  The lit blade hummed as it flew through the air.  Aim and speed enhanced by the Force, the blade sank hilt-deep into the older man's chest before Dooku could defend himself.

Dooku's eyes widened in shock, mouth open in a soundless cry of surprise.  He sank to his knees as Obi-Wan ripped his weapon free with the Force.  Dooku dropped his lightsaber, the blade disengaging as it fell from his hand.  Obi-Wan called his own lightsaber back to his hand and turned, fearing the worst.

He need not have.  Master Yoda stood with Qui-Gon and Anakin, eyes closed in concentration.  One clawed hand hovered in the air, fingers splayed.  The boulders that Count Dooku had ripped from the ceiling floated to the ground, settling with gentle _clacks_.  Obi-Wan closed his eyes in relief.  Over.  He'd done it.  He had one giddy moment to congratulate himself on not dying—again—before a hand closed around his ankle.

He looked down to find the Count staring up at him with baleful black eyes.  His skin was gray, cheeks sunken, but hatred still blazed from the old man in palpable waves as life fled his body.  "…Jedi..." he hissed, spitting the word.

Obi-Wan jerked free, stepping back.  Dooku's hand fell away, dropping down on the floor.  He lowered his head, his eyes closing. 

"Oh.  Good," he heard himself say, without any thought beforehand.  Uttering a short laugh, he stumbled backwards and sat down hard on his rear.  He bit his tongue hard enough for stars of pain to explode in his vision.  After that he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. 

-Do a little of both.  It's healthy for you- Jeimor advised. 

Obi-Wan blinked in surprise and turned to look at the crow.  "I thought you said you were here to keep me from doing anything stupid," he rasped out.  Taking on Dooku certainly ranked up as one of the least intelligent things he had ever done.

-Kept you from getting yourself beheaded, didn't I?-

Obi-Wan nodded, staring at the Dark Jedi on the ground before him.  One last hissing breath passed his lips, and Count Dooku was no more. 

He had enough time to relax and wonder how he was going to explain things when the Count's body exploded in a burst of dark energy.  Obi-Wan screamed as he was caught in a wave of expanding fire, ten times worse than the lightning Dooku had used against him.  He fell back, aware of Jeimor's voice in his mind as his vision grayed out.

 -Sorry, Kid!  Overload!-   

 _He even sounds surprised,_ Obi-Wan thought, and darkness took him.

**Uncertainty**

 

Yoda shielded them all, a fortunate thing, because Qui-Gon was too busy staring in disbelief at the Dark energy that exploded from his former Master’s body upon his death.  What jarred him, brought him to his senses, was the horrible, pain-filled scream that came from the copper-haired Jedi that had defeated Dooku.  Even through the conflagration of energy, Qui-Gon could see that the man’s teeth were bared, his eyes squeezed shut, as lightning crackled over his lean frame, scorching his tunics, burning his skin.

Then the nimbus was gone, and the strange Jedi fell back, sprawled out onto the floor, mouth parted.  No sign of movement, no hint of life.  Qui-Gon’s heart lurched in his chest.  “Go,” he whispered to Anakin.

Anakin needed no further instruction.  He darted over and slid to his knees at the strange man’s side, pressing two fingers to the pulse-point in his throat.  “Still alive,” Anakin confirmed after a moment, looking relieved.  He bent down and turned his head, listening with his ear just above the other man’s mouth.  “Still breathing, too, but he doesn’t sound that good—Padmé!” he cried, standing up, a delighted grin on his face.  “You’re all right!”

Qui-Gon watched the Senator approach, flanked by several of the clone troopers, all of them wielding blasters.  “Soft sand,” Padmé said, smiling reassurance at Anakin, before nodding at Qui-Gon and Yoda.  Anakin, relieved, went back to aid the fallen Jedi.  “We came to help you, but there doesn’t seem to be much left to do,” Padmé said.  “Where’s Dooku?”

Yoda hobbled forward, and Qui-Gon followed, feeling numb despite his relief to hear that the strange Jedi still lived.  Where Dooku had been, there was nothing but a blackened patch of floor, the faint hint of dust in the air, and the darkened hilt of his lightsaber. 

“Dooku is no more,” Yoda said, while Qui-Gon stared at the marred duracrete.  His Master was dead—worse, his Master had died in Darkness, died a Sith.  Even after the events of the past few days, it was still a shock.  While they had never really gotten along, it had never once occurred to Qui-Gon to think that his Master would choose this path.

“Hey—hey, stop that!” Anakin yelped.  Qui-Gon turned; the large black bird had flown over to perch on the wounded man’s chest, and was pecking at Anakin’s hands every time his Padawan tried to dislodge him.

“Come on, I can’t help him if you won’t move!” Anakin scolded the bird.  The bird, in response, rose up on its feet, spread its wings, and cawed so loudly at Anakin that the sound echoed through the hangar.  Then the crow settled back down, made itself comfortable, and glared at Anakin.  Its entire posture said clearly: _I’m not moving._

“Who’s that?” Padmé asked, shouldering her blaster rifle and stepping closer.

“I don’t know,” Qui-Gon answered.  “But he is the reason we did not have to dispatch Dooku ourselves,” he said, and felt a moment of perverse gratitude.  Raising his lightsaber against his Master was not something he’d been looking forward to.

Yoda leaned on his gimer stick, peering down at the unconscious man.  “Separate them, you should not,” he told Anakin, blinking thoughtful, considering eyes at Qui-Gon’s Padawan.  “Hmm.  A long time it has been, since such a thing I have seen.  A long, long time—and a Jedi, she was not.  Curious.  Very curious…”

“Seen what, Master Yoda?” Qui-Gon asked, after he, Anakin, and Padmé exchanged speculative looks.

Yoda lifted his head.  “Helping him, the crow is,” he announced.  “Bonded companions they are.  Look.  Healing, his injuries are,” he said, pointing with his gimer stick.

Qui-Gon glanced down, sucking in a surprised breath.  The copper-haired man’s burns were healing with what seemed to be Force-enhanced speed, becoming red, then pink, before fading into the paleness of his skin as if they had never been.  “I had… no idea that such things were possible,” he whispered, gazing at the crow.  The crow stared back, but the intensity of its amber gaze was no longer so strong, and he did not feel like he was drowning in it.  _Is that how he could continue fighting after being impaled on a lightsaber?_

The crow clacked its beak once, as if answering the unspoken question, but before Qui-Gon could contemplate that, his commlink chirped for attention.  He recognized the incoming signal and activated the comm.  “Mace?”

“Yes,” the other Master confirmed, his voice cracking as the stone walls of the hangar tried to interrupt the signal.  “Most of the Separatist troops have either been detained or have escaped.  We’re mopping things up now.  How are things on your end?”

Qui-Gon looked at the crow, the unconscious Jedi, his Padawan, Padmé Amidala, Yoda, and the cloned soldiers, and in that moment felt so weary it was almost too intense to be borne.  Days of wakefulness, the torture, and the arena battle were all catching up to him at once.  “Everything’s been taken care of,” he said, his voice rough with his sudden exhaustion.  “But we have wounded.”

“Don’t we all,” Mace replied.  “Use the transport that the Senator commandeered.  We’ll see you soon.”

“With us, they should go,” Yoda instructed once Qui-Gon had shut down the comm.  The tiny being had collected Dooku’s lightsaber, and was holding the cracked, ruined casing like it was distasteful.  “Return to Coruscant we shall.  Many questions I have,” he said, solemn-voiced, still gazing at the mysterious man and his companion.  “Many questions.”

When Anakin lifted the man up, the crow went with them, muttering and clacking its beak as weight shifted.  It was only then that the strange Jedi’s hand went lax, and the lightsaber he’d wielded came loose from his white-knuckled grip.  It rolled across the floor, coming to a gentle stop near Qui-Gon’s right boot.

Qui-Gon bent and picked it up, running his thumb down the hilt.  He swallowed; the impression of Obi-Wan he’d always felt from the blade had grown even more distant, overwhelmed by the death of a Sith.

“Sentimental, you are,” Yoda said.  He had stopped, half-turned, waiting for Qui-Gon to join him.  The others were already out of sight, making their way to the waiting transport.

Qui-Gon nodded.  Why deny it, when the evidence now rested in his hand?

To his surprise, the ancient Master smiled at him.  “A good thing, that is.”

 

_Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living._

_-Emily Bronte_

 

 _Jeimor?_  

-You sleep like something dead, Obi-Wan- the crow joked, and the bird’s harsh laughter echoed in his head.  -Open your eyes, Kid.-

Obi-Wan did so, and found the ceiling of a starship over his head.  He recognized it, of course; he’d spent enough time on the Nubian craft during the last days of his life.  He felt a moment’s grogginess before the sensation vanished, and energy flooded his system.  _That would be your doing?_

-Uh huh.  There wouldn’t have been a problem, but I had no idea that Sith exploded upon dying.-

Obi-Wan grimaced.  _Nor did I._ His hand crept to his waist, where a lightsaber wound should have resided.  He slipped his fingers through the hole in his tunics, feeling nothing but bare skin.  He’d felt himself burn in the Sith’s fire, too, but there seemed to be no trace of that, either.  _And I find that I’m fully healed.  Anything else you're going to forget to inform me of?_

-Nothing pressing- Jeimor said.  -By the way, you might want to pay some attention to the troll.  He's been waiting for you.-

 _What?!_   Obi-Wan sat bolt-upright.  Now that he’d been alerted to it, the old Master’s presence was unmistakable.   

Master Yoda was sitting on the floor, resting on a cushion, gimer stick held in both hands.  His gaze was calm, open and welcoming, though his ears raised as he watched Obi-wan regain control over himself.  “Been waiting for you to awaken, I have.”

Obi-Wan turned, letting his booted feet rest on the floor so that he could sit on the edge of the bunk.  His clothing was in even worse shape than his body must have been, scorched and blackened by Dooku’s death.  He touched one of the burns and felt cloth disintegrate under his fingertip, leaving a tiny hole behind. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered at last.

Yoda tilted his head.  “Strange, it is.  Consigned young Obi-Wan to the flames on Naboo, did we.  Yet here, Obi-Wan is.  Not so young, perhaps, but still it is the youngling from the creche I remember.”

Yoda recognized him and knew him for who he was, unquestionably.  Obi-Wan could have laughed at the relief that knowledge brought him.  He knelt on the floor, bowing reverently to the small Jedi Master.  “Strange is a very good word for this, Master Yoda,” he said.

“Hmm.  Yes.  Yes, it is."  Yoda said, and touched Obi-Wan’s hair, his clawed hands gentle.  “Tell me you must, how this has come to be.  Felt your passing, I did.”

Obi-Wan sat back on his heels.  “You sensed my...death?”  _Impossible,_ he thought.  Yoda might have been one of the strongest Jedi known, but the distance from Naboo to Coruscant...

Yoda snorted, amused, sensing his thoughts.  “Not so unusual, is it, when one so strong in the Force passes on.  Tell me,” he said again, and there was a hint of pleading in the elder's voice. 

“There's not much to tell, Master,” Obi-Wan hesitated.  He was not sure how to explain, when he barely understood it himself.  “I'm not a clone, if that's any help.”

Yoda smiled.  “Knew that, I did.  Seen one like you before, I have, ages ago.  A companion she had, and a violent path they walked together before her crow flew on alone.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, closed it, and then just sat there, thoughts whirring.  He was not the first.  Someone else, some when, had crossed back over, just as he had.  _Was that you as well, Jeimor?  The one who flew on alone?_

-Eh, that was before my time.  Relax, Kid.  Just tell the troll what you know- Jeimor advised.  -There's nothing wrong with that.  And I like him.  He keeps feeding me.-

Obi-Wan finally caught sight of Jeimor, huddled on the floor in a dark corner.  _What are you doing over there?_

-Hiding from the blond.  He gives me a headache.  Keeps trying to prod my mind.  Smacking impertinent teenagers takes effort.-  Jeimor's voice trailed off into a grumble.

Obi-Wan turned his attention back to Yoda, and began to speak.  It wasn't his most confident recital, as he told the old Master about his pleas, about the woman's voice, and about waking up on Geonosis with only Jeimor for company.  But he was honest, leaving out nothing about his own thoughts and reactions.  When he got to the fight, he hesitated at the sadness that appeared in Yoda's eyes, then plowed forward.  At last he fell silent, knowing from long years of experience that Yoda was thinking long and hard about all that Obi-Wan had told him.

“Unexpected, this was,” Yoda said at last, tracing the deck plates with his gimer stick.  “Think you that it was right, to interfere in this manner?”

Obi-Wan hesitated.  Yoda did have a point; it was rather audacious of him.  He shrugged and said, “I only know what my own feelings on the matter are, Master.  It seems someone agreed with me.”

Yoda grunted noncommittally.  “And here you are, then.  What should we do with you, hmm?”

He smiled.  “I'm not sure.  I hadn't thought this far ahead.  And, well.”  He paused and considered his surroundings.  "Why are we on Queen—er, Senator Amidala’s vessel?”

“Returning to Coruscant, we are.  Slept through most of the flight, you did,” Yoda informed him.

Obi-Wan scrambled to his feet, panicked.  “Coruscant?  Master Yoda, no, I—”

Yoda waved his stick at him.  “Calm, Obi-Wan.  Calm.  All right, it is.”

“All right?” Obi-Wan stared at him, slack-jawed.  “It's not all right.  I'm not—I'm not supposed to...”  He trailed off, while Yoda waited for him to continue.  “I don't know,” he whispered, sinking back down onto his knees.  “I was supposed to—to balance something.  Didn't I do that?”  He looked at Jeimor, pleading.

-Well, come on.  You know the lore, golden boy.  'Always two there are.'  Or however it goes.-

Obi-Wan jumped up again, turning a startled, shocked stare on Jeimor.  _“What do you mean, two?!”_ he asked, his voice a shocked hiss of breath.

The crow huffed in annoyance, shuffling his feet, but it was Yoda who answered.  “Always two, there are,” he intoned.  “A Master, and an Apprentice.  Such is the way of the Sith.”

-No job is ever that easy, Kid- Jeimor said, regretfully.  -Sorry, but your task is far from over.-

Obi-Wan bit his lip, then made himself stop.  He needed to think, and think quickly.  “Jeimor told me that...that Qui-Gon killed the Sith we fought on Naboo.  But Dooku was still a member of the Order at the time.  Wasn't he?”  Yoda nodded.  “Then Dooku must have been a replacement.  The new Apprentice?”

Yoda sighed, lowering his ears.  “Similar thoughts we have had.  Discussed them while you healed, we did.  Only a Sith knows of the abilities that my old Padawan used against you.  If true, this is, then once again only the Master remains.  Seek a new Apprentice, he will.”

Obi-Wan stood there on shaking legs, and wavered in place for a moment.  The energy he’d found upon waking was gone.  He felt tired, bone-weary, and had just discovered that his reason for being here was more complicated than he could have ever imagined.  There was no doubt in his mind that finding the Master of the Sith was going to turn into the greatest challenge of his existence.  “Perfect,” he muttered. 

 

*          *          *          *

 

Anakin stopped in front of the door, hesitating in the process of knocking.  “Ready, Master?”

Qui-Gon managed a terse smile, grateful for his Padawan’s concern.  “Go ahead, Ani.”

Anakin ducked his head, a faint blush staining his cheeks.  “You haven’t called me that in a long time, Master.”

“Perhaps I should remember to do it more often, then,” Qui-Gon mused, taking a moment to rest his hand on Anakin’s shoulder.  “Besides, I see that I am not the only one.”

“You mean Padmé,” Anakin said, and if anything, the blush on his cheeks darkened.  Qui-Gon had never been able to school Anakin in the art of attaining a blank diplomatic mask, but that was no real failing—it was just the boy’s nature.  What saved Anakin from being an utter failure at diplomacy was his earnestness, his genuine desire to help, and his ability to listen.  “I…she…we want to be together,” he admitted in a rushed mumble.  “But—the Code, and—”

“Anakin.”  Qui-Gon squeezed the young man’s shoulder in a firm, reassuring grip.  “I understand the nature of your feelings.  I have known of them since the day the two of you met.  However, I am not the best person to seek counsel from in this situation.”

Anakin lifted his head, and the sadness reflected in his blue eyes was almost a match for what lurked in Qui-Gon’s heart.  “You mean because of what you told me before.”

Qui-Gon nodded.  “I will support you in whatever decision you make, Padawan.  When we get back to Coruscant, and there is time, perhaps you should discuss this with Aayla Secura.  She has had some insight into the matter.”

Anakin winced.  “I think Knight Secura might be possessed of far too much honesty for my taste, Master.  But thank you.  I will consider your words.  Shall we?” he asked.

He motioned with his hand for Anakin to proceed, and they waited for Yoda’s clear mindspeech to give them an invitation.  _Enter, you may._

They stood next to each other in silence as they regarded the tableau that awaited them.  Yoda was seated on the floor, blinking calm, sleepy eyes and watching the unknown Jedi pace the room. 

The younger man’s eyes seemed to lack that blue-green quality that had startled Qui-Gon so badly, and in this light their color was more gray than blue, which was a relief.  The gray and black dust on his face was gone, revealing fair skin, and his scruffy beard was the same copper-blond as the man’s hair.  His clothing looked like it was almost ready to fall apart, but the man underneath was intact, moving with swift, easy grace, even though a frown of concentration marred his brow.  Dressed in the full robes of the Order, Qui-Gon knew the man would strike an imposing figure, despite his slender form.

Anakin coughed, trying to be discreet in the face of his Master’s abject staring.  “We could come back later,” he offered.

The strange Jedi froze in place, glancing up at them in something close to alarm.  “N—no. No, that’s all right.  Forgive me,” he said, bowing to them in greeting.  “I didn’t realize you were there.  I was…occupied.”

Qui-Gon stiffened, every muscle in his back going rigid with tension.  Even as hoarse as the man’s voice was, it was as familiar as his own breath, despite the years that had passed since he had last heard it.  The same cultured tones, the same lilt, a hint of brogue.  “Who are you?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice sharp and demanding. 

Yoda gave him a disapproving glare.  The younger man was still standing locked in place, and at Qui-Gon’s question his eyes widened in surprise.

“Been a long time, it has,” Yoda spoke, “since I have seen this young one.”  He tapped his gimer stick on the floor, drawing Qui-Gon and Anakin’s attention.  “Ben Lars, this is.”

Qui-Gon frowned.  He knew he had spent far too little time in the Temple over the past twenty years, but the name Ben Lars was alien to him.  He should have been aware of any Jedi Knight by that name, especially one that fought so well.  He swallowed.  Especially one that so closely resembled Obi-Wan Kenobi, in speech and appearance.  “I am not familiar with that name.”

Yoda nodded, unconcerned.  “Left the Jedi some years ago he did, though by choice it was not.  Happening all at once, many things were.  Slipped through the cracks, this youngling did.”  Lars said nothing, but gave Yoda a lopsided smile that eased the lines of stress on his face.  “Master Qui-Gon Jinn this is,” Yoda went on, introducing them for Lars’s benefit.  “Anakin Skywalker, his Padawan is.”

Lars bowed again with fluid grace.  “A pleasure to meet you both,” he murmured. 

There was a jumble of surprise and shock from the link he shared with his Padawan.  “Forgive me,” Anakin said, his voice cracking.  “But your family name is Lars?”

Lars nodded.  “Well, yes.  Why?”

“You look—you look like I should know you,” Anakin said, his brow furrowed.  “Does…do you know a Cliegg Lars?  Or Owen Lars?  I mean, I know it’s a big galaxy, but—” he halted his words, both of them noticing the stunned look on Lars’s face.  “You do know them?”

Ben Lars nodded again.  “I should say so.  Cliegg is my father.  Owen is my younger brother.  I haven’t spoken to them in ages.  How do you know them?”

Anakin's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes clouded with something almost like remorse.  And…guilt?  More than ever, Qui-Gon wanted to know what had happened on Tatooine, but now was not the time. 

“My mother—she married Cliegg Lars,” Anakin said.

Qui-Gon hadn't expected _that._   He stared at Anakin, even as Lars went pale. 

“Married?” Lars whispered.  “My father…married your mother?”

Yoda looked back and forth between them, smiling.  “Hmm.  Family that makes you.”  Anakin nodded, still staring at Lars in mute surprise.

“Uh—yes.  Yes, I suppose it does.”  Lars took two steps back and collapsed onto the bunk.  “I…  Hell.  Small galaxy.”  He turned and stared into the corner; Qui-Gon followed his gaze and saw the large black crow huddled there.  Lars’s forehead creased as he frowned.  “You stay out of this.”

It would take death to defeat Anakin Skywalker’s innate curiosity.  “Are you really speaking to it?”

Lars looked annoyed.  “Yes, I am.  Be grateful that you can’t hear him.  He’s an ass—yes, I know he’s my stepbrother!  What do you think I am, deaf?”

Anakin grinned a little, the earlier emotion disappearing back behind iron shields.  The crow cawed and flapped his wings at them.  Qui-Gon couldn't decide if the bird was insulted or delighted by the perceived praise.  “What is he called?”

Lars pressed his lips together before holding out his arm.  The crow launched himself into the air, landing on the man's arm.  “This is Jeimor.”  The crow shifted his weight until he was properly settled, then turned to them and bobbed its head in recognition.  “He is...well, for all that he is a bird, he is quite sentient.”  Lars smiled and ruffled the bird’s ebony feathers with his fingertips.  “He’s my friend,” he said, and sighed.  “The only one I have.”

Yoda's ears dropped at the loneliness audible in Lars’s voice.  “Leave you to rest, we shall,” he said, getting to his feet.  “Call you I will, when arrive we do.  Speak with you, the Council will.”

Lars didn’t look pleased at that pronouncement.  Qui-Gon couldn’t blame him, considering how often those instructions had left him with a splitting headache.  “Yes, Master,” Lars said.  His eyes flickered up at Qui-Gon and Anakin before he glanced away once more, looking for all the world like he wanted to bury his face in the crow’s feathers.

Yoda effectively shooed Anakin and Qui-Gon out of the room, letting the door slide shut behind him.  Qui-Gon wasted no time in finding his voice.  “Master, what happened to him?  How could a Knight of such talent have left the Order unwillingly?”

“He sounded so lonely,” Anakin said, his arms wrapped around himself as if warding off the chill of space. 

Yoda sighed, leaning heavily on his gimer stick.  “A Knight he was not, but my story to tell, this is not.  His privacy, we should respect.  For now, Master Qui-Gon,” he said, when Qui-Gon would have protested.  “Time, he needs.”

Qui-Gon stared at the door before nodding.  “Of course.  Though it seems as if...”

Anakin quirked his lips into a half-smile and finished his Master's sentence.  “It seems as if he could use some company more than he could use time, Master Yoda.”

Yoda tilted his head sideways and regarded them both.  “Soon enough.  Soon enough.”

 

 _Death but the Drift of Eastern Gray,_  
_Dissolving into Dawn away_

_-Emily Dickinson_

           

Mace Windu stared down at Yoda in disbelief.  “You're not serious.”

Yoda thumped his cane down on the floor of the Council Chamber, which was currently empty of all presences save their own.  “Serious I am, Master Windu.  Obi-Wan he is.”

Mace sank down into his chair in a slump, rubbing at his temples with both hands.  “Force, Master.  The man is dead!  We both attended his funeral!”  The memory was clear enough, that was certain.  Losing Obi-Wan had been terrible enough, but worse had been the sight of Qui-Gon Jinn, standing before the pyre. 

Xanatos’s fall had been harsh enough on the man’s gentle soul, but Obi-Wan, sacrificing himself in order to stop the Sith…  Qui-Gon had been shattered.  When he’d pulled himself back together there were more pieces missing than found, for he had simply been unable to recover from Kenobi’s loss.  He did his best with Skywalker, but some vital part of Qui-Gon had gone up with the smoke from the pyre.  It was only Skywalker’s innate trust of Qui-Gon that allowed them to function as a Master-Padawan team. 

Yoda was watching him, expectant, his ears twitching with repressed impatience.  “Yes, Master Windu—dead, he is.  But stand before us today, he _will_.”

Mace sat up.  “I can handle ghosts, Master, but this is a living being we’re talking about.  How are such things possible?”

Yoda sighed, his eyes drifting to the sight of Coruscant’s sunset, which filled the Council chambers with a soft, golden glow.  “A tale I was once told, by one far older than even I am now.  Of old legends did this ancient one speak, of how great black birds were the carriers of souls.  Crows, he called them.  On the wings of such birds, spirits find refuge in the Force.  Find crows, you can, under many different names on worlds scattered throughout the galaxy.  But different, these particular crows are; see this yourself, you will.”  He smiled, chuckling.  “Obi-Wan you will also know, when see him you do.  Others will know this, but will reject the truth even as the Force whispers his name to them.  Possible it could not be, after all.  To the pyre, Obi-Wan was given.”

“What _do_ Qui-Gon and Skywalker think?” Mace asked, feeling the beginnings of a headache stir behind his eyes.  “It's bound to be hard on Qui-Gon, seeing Obi-Wan again.  Especially like this.”

Yoda frowned.  “Know, they do not.  Recognizes his Padawan, Master Qui-Gon does, even as he tells himself that it cannot be.  Like this, I do not, but push a confrontation between them, I _dare_ not.” 

Mace rested his chin on his hand.  “I can't say as I blame him.  I don't even know how I'm reacting, Master.  I need more information.  I need to see him, talk to him.”

Yoda nodded.  “Resorted to Obi-Wan's birth name, we did.  Know of it, only Obi-Wan and I did.  Ben Lars he has become, for now.”

“That was in Padawan Skywalker's initial mission report.  It seems as if they’re step-brothers now.”  Mace shook his head, amused despite the situation.  “Funny how things work out.”  He lifted his head, sensing the approach of the other Masters.  It was almost time.  “Master Yoda, what do we tell the others?”

“The truth,” Yoda said, “even if, wish to hear it, they do not.  Too important this is, Master Windu, to let fall to chance.  The end of the Sith, Obi-Wan’s task is.  Help him, we must.”

 

_Lost time is never found again._

_-Benjamin Franklin_

 

-Will you relax?-  Jeimor looked up from his perch on the back of a chair, clacking his beak in annoyance.  -You're going to make me nervous, and I'm supposed to be above that sort of thing.-

Obi-Wan stopped pacing and came to a halt in front of the window.  He stared out at the dark cityscape, taking in the sight of millions of beings going about their lives.  Shopping, laughing, crying, stealing, badgering, teasing—perhaps even making love.  He shut his eyes against a sudden feeling of loss.  Mundane things.  Everyday things.  Things that he had once taken for granted, and could never have again. 

“Strange,” he said.  They were alone in the antechamber to the Council, waiting to be called in.  Considering the strong current of emotion he could sense, despite the shielded nature of the Council chamber, they were likely talking about him. 

-What?-

“It’s just strange.  I feel like no time has passed since the last time I stood here, when the Council sent us back to Naboo.  But at the same time?”  He rested his forehead against the glass, feeling that press of weariness once more.  “I feel as if it's been forever.”

-Forever is a long time, Obi-Wan- Jeimor said, his voice surprisingly soft. 

Obi-Wan looked up and met the crow's eyes.  “Have you always been a guide, Jeimor?”

The crow pecked at a loose thread on the chair cushion.  -Time has little meaning for me, Kid.-

The Council doors opened, and Yoda's voice in his head bade them to enter.  "It's time."  Obi-Wan held out his arm and Jeimor hopped aboard, walking up to perch upon Obi-Wan's shoulder.  As they crossed the threshold, Obi-Wan realized that Jeimor hadn't answered his question at all.

He walked into the chamber with slow, cautious steps, not sure what to expect.  The lamps that circled the room had been turned on, sending back the darkness that had fallen while he was rummaging around by himself in Stores, trying to find clothing in his size that wasn’t crisp white.  He didn’t want that, not at all.  Jeimor had found something at last—black leggings, black undertunic and overtunic, black tabards.  The very sight of them might once have unnerved him, for very few Jedi in the Order chose to wear black.  Instead, he’d touched the cloth and felt the _rightness_ of it.  The only exception he had made was the cloak he’d found in his size, made of a soft gray material that reminded him of the eerie light of pre-dawn. 

There were only six Council members in attendance.  Two members of the Council had just lost their lives on Geonosis.  Other members of the Council remained there, supervising cleanup and preparing to follow the Separatist leaders.  Those who had returned to Coruscant sat together in a line of six chairs:  Mace Windu, Master Yoda, Adi Gallia, Ki-Adi Mundi, Saesee Tiin, and Shaak Ti, who’d still been a Knight when he’d died.

They stared at him; he stared back.  Jeimor shifted on his shoulder, restless under the weight of so many gazes.  After an interminable silence, Shaak Ti grinned at him.  “Nice hair, Obi-Wan.”

The comment was so unexpected that he burst out laughing, finally bowing to all of those present.  Jeimor was becoming adept at staying on his shoulder through such motions.  “Nice chair, Shaak,” he replied, smiling.

“It is shiny, isn’t it?” the Togrutan woman agreed.   

“Thank you,” he said.  “I think I needed that.”

“I think I just want a drink,” Master Gallia said, tilting her head at him.  “By the gods, boy.  Just— _look_ at you!”

Obi-Wan still had the mad urge to laugh, and found himself biting his tongue in effort not to do so.  Part of him was also tempted to step close and let the Masters pinch him, just to prove that yes, he really was standing there.  “I take it you told them, Master,” he said, looking at Yoda.

Yoda nodded.  “Needed to know, at least half of the Council did.  Our help you may need; your help _we_ need.”

“Master Yoda has told us that you have apparently…” Master Windu waved his hand, looking frustrated, “returned to deal with the Sith.”  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers.  “Force.  Obi-Wan Kenobi, how in the hell are you standing there?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.  “I… spoke with someone, insisted to someone that things were unbalanced, not as they should be.  And then I woke up on Geonosis like this, with a sarcastic bird for a companion.”

Jeimor cawed once and then tugged on Obi-Wan’s ear.  -Sardonic is what I prefer.-

Ki-Adi Mundi looked like he wanted a drink just as much as Master Gallia.  “I am a Cerean Jedi Master, and this… this is incredible, Obi-Wan.  And what I can sense from you is just…”  He trailed off, shaking his head.

Obi-Wan frowned, puzzled.  “What can you sense?”

“Power,” said Master Tiin, regarding Obi-Wan with curious eyes.  “Raw, elemental, untamed power.”

“It seems to lurk just below your skin,” Shaak murmured, her eyes closed.  “As if I were to look at you in just the right way, I would be able to see it.”

“Of the Light, this power is not,” Master Yoda said, gazing up at Obi-Wan.  “But Dark, it also is not.  It exists; it waits.  For you to use, this is, to help you.  Understand it, others may not.  Fear you, they may.”

“Well, if people are driven to avoid me, all to the better,” Obi-Wan said, tucking his arms into the soft sleeves of the gray cloak.  “The less people running around trying to figure out why I’m…not dead, the better.”

Master Windu pursed his lips.  “Indeed.  Yoda has dubbed you Ben Lars, per your old file before your parents changed your name.  After much conversation, we are inclined to agree with you; the less stir you create in the Temple, the better.”

“If only to make sure the Sith does not notice you,” Master Mundi said.  “Alerting the Sith Lord will not make your task any easier.”

Obi-Wan nodded.  His parents had ordered the change in his name when he was two years-old, though never had he been told why.  Since he had been Obi-Wan as long as he could remember, he’d never bothered to tell Qui-Gon, either.  There would be no association for his former Master to find.  He was glad of the lapse; Obi-Wan Kenobi could stay dead.

 Master Windu was watching him, his piercing dark eyes studying Obi-Wan with interest.  “We are curious, though:  What drove you to seek out Dooku on Geonosis?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I would have called it coincidence, Master Windu,” he said, choosing his words with care.  “I found Qu–Master Jinn’s transport, and…”  He closed his eyes, the memory of that first spike of information still a shock.  “I’m psychometric now.  I could sense what had happened.  The droid, R4, offered me a lift after I freed him of his restraining bolt, and he gave me an update of what had been happening.  During the battle, I noticed Dooku, and followed him, because that was what I was _supposed_ to do.”

“What you were supposed to do,” Master Tiin repeated, frowning.  “Your emotions demanded your involvement in the battle?”

“I don’t trust my emotions, I trust the Force,” Obi-Wan retorted.  This was familiar, this mental war with the Council.  This dance he knew.

To his surprise, Master Tiin grinned and inclined his head.  “Wise answer.  Please, continue.”

Obi-Wan repeated to the Council what he had told to Master Yoda, then, at Master Windu’s direction, began a full accounting of the duel.  As he spoke, he heard the doors open, but ignored it.  It was common, when so much had happened, for Council sessions to be stacked together, with Knights, Masters, and Padawans sent in for debriefing in staggered clusters. 

“So he mentioned nothing of the Sith before his death,” Shaak Ti said, disappointed.

“I’m afraid not,” Obi-Wan replied.  “He seemed more inclined towards taunts than sharing anything useful.”

“Outside of Master Jinn, you spent the most time in Dooku’s presence.  What was your opinion of the man?” Saesee Tiin asked him.

“He was insane,” Obi-Wan said flatly.  “The Darkness in him I could understand, but he was…off-balance.  When he lost control, there was nothing of a Jedi Master within him.”

“That’s true,” a familiar voice said, and Obi-Wan froze in place.  “There was very little of the man I once knew left to be found.”

He turned his head to find Anakin Skywalker and Qui-Gon Jinn standing several steps to the left and behind him, obviously summoned by the Council to share in the discussion of Dooku’s defeat.  _Oh, damn damn damn damn damn_ , he thought, turning his gaze back to the front and resisting the urge to glare at Yoda.  Sneaky little troll.  _You’re not going to catch me off-balance that way._   He was not surprised to see a glint of amusement in the ancient Master’s green eyes. 

Obi-Wan was forced to listen, then, to Qui-Gon’s full accounting of his time on Geonosis.  To say it was unpleasant was an understatement, and he was relieved that both Dooku and Jango Fett, who had also participated in Qui-Gon’s torture, were dead.  It meant that Obi-Wan wouldn’t be tempted by thoughts of hunting down the bounty hunter and ripping his head off. 

His mouth was dry; his only focus for almost half of his life stood just a few steps away from him, solid, warm, _real—_ and he could do nothing.  Instead, Obi-Wan listened to the rest of the recitation with half an ear, staring out of the window and watching the distant lights of traffic patterns, letting his jagged emotions be soothed by the motion and the multitude of life forms he could feel.  Truly he was closer to the Living Force than he had ever been, and if that wasn't the greatest of ironies, he didn't know what was.

He’d fallen into a light trance without realizing it, and came back to himself to realize that he was being spoken to.  Qui-Gon.  Obi-Wan looked up and forced himself to focus on a crease in Qui-Gon’s tunic, unable to bear the thought of looking him in the eyes.  “I’m sorry.  I must still be tired.  What did you say?”

Qui-Gon sighed.  "I asked why we should trust you, Ben Lars.  Forgive me, but your fight with my Mast—with Count Dooku had very convenient timing."

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to bite his lip again.  He had, after all, killed the man's Master, twisted though he was.  "I suppose there is no reason why you should.  I have been gone a long time, after all.  I don't even know if our paths would have ever crossed.  But, I’m… I'm prescient, to a certain extent.  The Force called to me, told me I was needed.  Of course, if I had known exactly what it needed me for, I might not have answered," he replied with no little self-deprecation.  He’d dueled enough Sith for one lifetime, and here he was, about to start a hunt for another one.  He had to be _insane._

-Nah, just dead- Jeimor said, and a manic giggle tried to climb out of Obi-Wan’s throat.  He forced it back with effort. 

Master Yoda snorted.  "Answered, you would have."  He tilted his head.  "Gravely injured, you were.  But healed you did, with no help from others.  Your companion is to blame, hmm?"

Obi-Wan dropped his eyes, inexplicably embarrassed, as the Council turned their regard back to him.  “Yes.”

“I saw Dooku wound you,” Qui-Gon rumbled, and Obi-Wan could almost feel his piercing stare.  “You should have been incapacitated, at the very least.”

 _I guess you can't die the same way twice,_ he thought, and this time almost choked as he suppressed his laughter.  Once he was sure he wasn’t going to lose it, he spoke.  “I don't understand how the bond works; it’s a new thing, and we’re both still learning.  I don't know a lot of things, really.  I don't pretend to, either."

"Hmmm."  Yoda regarded him with kind eyes.  "How feel you?"

"Bewildered, Master," he replied, feeling no need to lie.  "I'm not sure what place I have here.”

"Let others decide that, you should," Yoda retorted.  "Well, you fought, against a powerful enemy for the protection of others.  No small thing is this."

Suddenly, too late, he had a good idea of where this was going.  "Master, no.  I'm just a failed Padawan.  I only did..."   He trailed off, realizing how neatly he’d been caught, how well he’d fallen into their trap.  They’d even made sure Qui-Gon and Anakin witnessed it. 

"You only did what you were supposed to do as a Jedi," Master Windu finished for him, smiling.  "Agree with Master Yoda, this Council does.  Restored you are to the Jedi, Ben Lars, as a full Knight with all of the privileges therein."

Obi-Wan stared at them.  He’d never… he hadn’t come back from the dead for a blasted Knighthood!  "But… but…”  

Master Yoda cackled at him.  So did Jeimor.  Anakin offered him a shy, approving smile.  Strangely enough, it was that smile that restored his equilibrium.  "Thank you, Masters," he said, managing a bow that was more shaky than not.  "I shall do my best to live up to the faith that you place in me."

Master Windu leaned back in his chair, looking pleased.  “See that you do.”

**Inertia**

Qui-Gon watched surreptitiously, seeing a multitude of conflicting emotions pass over Ben Lars’ face.  Pride, hope, disbelief, even a touch of anger flashed in his gray eyes.  The clothing was an interesting choice, ditching beige for black, but Qui-Gon had been right—in the full robes of the Order, the copper-haired man did indeed make a striking figure. 

At last the serene mask of a Jedi settled into place, though Lars did reach up to stroke the crow’s glossy black feathers.  The crow murmured soothing nonsense in reply, rubbing his cheek with his closed beak.  Despite what Lars had said about Jeimor’s attitude, there was genuine affection between them.  Qui-Gon was startled to realize that he was glad of that warmth.  No one should have to be alone in the universe.

"There is little we can do at the moment about the Sith but wait," Mace said, frowning after giving Qui-Gon a stern glance.  "Dooku was the leader of the Separatists, and the driving force behind the formation of their army.  With that power vacuum in place, there is no way to tell what may happen next.  Chancellor Palpatine is preparing the clone army for a possible war, but it is our hope that the war will not come to pass."

"Clouded the future is, more than before," Yoda said, his eyes half-closed, a spark of anger lurking in his gaze.  "Prepare we must, as well."

"May the Force be with us all," Mace said, the simple phrase dismissing both the summoned Jedi and the Council as well. 

Qui-Gon touched the second lightsaber hanging from his belt, where it had stayed from the moment he’d retrieved it on the hangar bay floor.  The impression of Obi-Wan, the last sense of his Padawan, had faded away.  It was nothing more than a tool, now, for all he still treasured the memory of the hands that had built it.  “Knight Lars,” he said, his voice hesitant as he stepped closer to the man, who hadn’t bothered to move after the dismissal.  “Congratulations.”

Lars jerked and looked up in surprise, glancing away before their eyes could meet.  “Thank you,” he said, nervousness visible in every line of Lars’s body.  “I hope I am worthy of such a thing.”

"Well, I doubt they would give the rank of Knight to one they felt did not deserve it," Qui-Gon said dryly.  "Though I'm sure they regret ever handing me my own." 

Lars granted him a faint smile.  Even without the blue-green flash Qui-Gon thought he’d seen, his eyes were clear and beautiful. 

Qui-Gon kicked himself mentally.  There was no good place that line of thought could go.  "You can disassemble all you like, Knight Lars.  But I've seen you fight, and you handled the Council with a grace I have never been able to manage.  You are as worthy to be a Jedi as any man I have ever met."

 Ben Lars finally looked up at him, allowing their gazes to meet.  It would be so easy for those gray eyes to be cold, but they were warm.  Yet beneath the warmth was a great deal of sadness, and Qui-Gon wondered at the cause.  “Thank you,” Lars said, his voice soft.  “That…that means a great deal to me.”

“You are welcome,” he said, aware that Anakin was at his shoulder, listening intently.  “I was… curious about something, however,” he said, and unclipped Obi-Wan’s lightsaber fro his belt, holding it up.

Lars looked at the lightsaber and then averted his eyes as if the very sight of it burned him.  “Forgive me for my use of the weapon,” he whispered.  “I did not mean to upset you.”

Qui-Gon managed not to flinch, but it was a near thing.  He had been the cause of Ben’s injury during the duel, after all.  It would be a long time before he would be able to forgive himself for the lapse in control.  “No.  Forgive me, please.  My reaction nearly got you killed.  Despite that, you wielded it well.  Perhaps it should be yours,” he offered, not certain he was going to until he spoke.  It felt like the right thing to do.  Perhaps it was time to let this attachment go, at last.

“I—there is nothing to forgive, Master Jinn,” Lars said, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips.  It was a further display of nerves, and Qui-Gon cursed himself, knowing that he was the cause, that his anger had made an absolutely _horrible_ first impression on Ben Lars.  “And I thank you, but no.  I feel like I must build my own.  But I am grateful for your consideration,” Lars said, bowing. 

Qui-Gon tucked the lightsaber away, feeling nonplussed and more than a little off-balance.  Lars’s manners were court and Senate perfect, and whoever had trained the man needed to have their _head_ examined for letting this former Padawan slip away from the Order.

Mace walked over, nodding at them before turning his attention to Lars.  “Ben, if you’ll come with me, I can arrange living quarters for you.  There is…” he hesitated.  “After Geonosis, we have plenty of room to spare.”

Qui-Gon sighed.  “Have they decided when the memorial is to be?” he asked.

Mace shook his head.  “Not yet.  We’ll send out a notice to every comm center in the Temple once a date has been decided, Qui-Gon.  You and your apprentice need to go home.  You still look like hell.  Get some rest, and that’s an order.”

He scowled at the senior Councilor.  “You are not my nursemaid, Mace Windu.”

“Yes, but some days I feel like it,” Mace shot back.  “Come, Knight Lars.”

“Wait.”

Both Mace and Lars turned, looking surprised, which was no less than what Qui-Gon was feeling.  Once again he’d spoken without knowing of what he was going to say… and yet, he was loath to let the new Knight out of his sight.  Ben Lars was, at the very least, a fascinating individual.  “Perhaps you would join us in our quarters sometime, Knight Lars,” he said.

“Please,” Anakin added, stepping forward with an earnest expression.  “I… your company would be welcome, and you’re family now, sort of.  Can I have the chance to get to know you better, Knight Lars?”

Lars looked back and forth between them, hesitant.  Then the crow clamped his beak around Lars' ear and pulled.  Lars winced, glared at Jeimor, and then favored them both with a smile.  "I've been told I would be an idiot to decline.  Thank you, both of you.  Do you mind if I bring a friend?”

"Jeimor is quite welcome in my home," Qui-Gon replied, nodding to the crow.  The crow bobbed his head at Qui-Gon, mimicking him with eerie accuracy.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Mace had a moment’s concern when he saw Qui-Gon and Skywalker approach Obi-Wan— _No_ , he told himself.  Ben Lars.  He had to start thinking of the man that way, or he was going to open his mouth at the wrong time and the whole idea of stealth would come crashing down.  His worry faded when he saw Ben smile, an expression that lit up his eyes.  The invitation surprised Mace even more, but gods, he hadn’t seen Qui-Gon Jinn look so…so _animated_ in years. 

Mace led Ben out of the Council chamber, hoping that the two of them would be able to figure things out for themselves.  If it was so obvious to him that Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon needed each other, then the rest of the Temple was going to notice soon enough.

He went to his office, certain that they would have privacy.  It was too late in the day for the usual crowd of curious Initiates, seeking Padawans, and complaining Knights.

Ben waved the door closed behind them, settling down on a chair without needing to be asked.  The crow hopped off of his shoulder, settled onto the back of the chair, and began preening his feathers.  Mace watched, unnerved; half the time the crow, Jeimor, acted like a normal bird.  The other half of the time, the crow seemed more like a living doorway, the ebony-winged carrier of souls that Yoda had spoken of. 

Mace paused in front of Ben, managing a genuine smile.  “I do have to say, despite the unusual situation, that it is good to see you again,” he said, and held out his hand.

Ben smiled and reached up.  The moment their fingers brushed, Ben jerked his hand back, his eyes wide and unseeing.  “What?” Mace asked, concerned.  “What is it?”

“Sorry,” Ben rasped out, wrapping his arms around himself, his fingers tucked into his armpits.  “I forgot that I…” he shook his head.  “If I didn’t hate psychometry before, I certainly do now.”  He shuddered.  “I didn’t need to see that.”

“What was it?” Mace asked, kneeling down next to Ben.

“My… my funeral,” Ben said, taking a deep, calming breath.  The crow teased Ben’s hair with a gentle beak.  “You were thinking about it.”

“I had been,” Mace admitted, chilled.  Not even Quinlan Vos’s psychometry was so accurate—not on living beings, at any rate.  “I’m sorry.”

Ben laughed, but there was no humor in the sound.  “Don’t be.  I haven’t figured out how to gain any kind of control over it yet.”

Mace shook his head and got up, walking around his desk before sitting down.  He keyed up available quarter listings, running down the list as he spoke.  “You’re taking on one hell of a job, Obi-Wan,” he said, deciding it was wisest for both of them if he changed the subject.  “We’ve been searching for signs of the Sith Lord for the last ten years and have found nothing.”  It was a sore spot for him, one that galled him.  Had the Order become so blind that one of their own could become a Sith’s Apprentice, and even those who knew him best felt nothing?  At this rate, the Sith Master could live under their very noses and remain unnoticed.

“I know, Master Windu,” Ben said, shoulders slumping.  “But both the Force and Jeimor tell me that this is what I’m here to do.  I practically _demanded_ to do this.  I just… didn’t know exactly what I was getting into at the time.  I didn’t expect so much time to have passed,” he whispered.

Mace took in the sudden hollow-eyed stare and pressed his lips together.  He hadn’t realized that, didn’t even know if Yoda knew of it.  “Much has changed,” he said gently.  “But you will find that much is still the same.”

"I feel like I have nothing to connect to."  Ben clasped his hands and rested them on his knee.  Mace looked at the man, taking in how the Force, or whatever it was, had compensated for the decade Obi-Wan had lost and shook his head.  Returning from the dead would have been traumatic enough, but coming back in a body ten years older was likely not helping the situation. 

Then Ben looked up, and the expression was so wry, so familiar, that Mace was found it difficult to believe that Qui-Gon couldn’t admit that this was his Padawan, that it was _Obi-Wan_.  “If you need anything, anything at all,” Mace offered, even as he highlighted his choice and began imputing the necessary information, “don’t hesitate in coming to see me.  I’m not going to let you forget who you are.”  He printed out a flimplast copy, which contained information about Ben Lars’s new quarters and his new Temple access codes.  Jocasta Nu was going to try to take his head off once she realized Mace had given Ben Lars access to every vault in the Archives, even the restricted sections. 

“Thank you, Master Windu,” Ben said, standing up and accepting the flimplast.  “I will…I will bear that in mind.”

Mace watched him depart, once Jeimor had hopped back up onto his customary shoulder perch, and smiled.  He’d managed to get Ben Lars into the same housing section as Qui-Gon Jinn and Anakin Skywalker.  They were bound to cross paths again, and if they didn’t, Mace imagined the ancient troll would ensure it.

 

 _You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by._  
_-James M. Barrie_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first image is mine; the beautiful ink drawings in the chapter were done by Cajolerisms.


	2. Book Two - Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time will always bring change. Whether or not the change is good? Only when it is observed will you know.

 

 

_The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow_

_from which we refuse to be divorced._

_-Washington Irving_

__

 

It was a full month before Qui-Gon Jinn saw Knight Ben Lars again.

Qui-Gon stepped into the dining hall, halting for an amused moment as a group of young Initiates scrambled through the open doorway around him, making their way to their classes.  This time of morning, the dining hall was almost empty.  Droids were roaming the tables, doing any necessary cleanup to prepare for the upcoming lunch rush.

He moved towards the serving line, attracted by the sweet scent of cooking fruit on the air, when he stopped, his attention caught by the distinctive copper hair of Ben Lars.  The younger Knight was slouched in his chair, alone at a table but for Jeimor’s presence.  The crow was making short work of a bowl full of raw meat.  Ben was picking at his food, his gaze vacant.  His face was paler than Qui-Gon remembered, with a pinched, haunted expression that Qui-Gon was familiar with.  There were so many times he’d awoken looking just the same way, and this morning had been no exception.

He made his way to Lars’s table instead, no longer interested in food.  “Might I join you?”

Ben flinched, lifting his head to look up at Qui-Gon, his eyes wide with surprise.  “Er… certainly, as long as you don’t mind my friend’s choice of entrée.”

Qui-Gon quirked an eyebrow at the crow as it paused to give him a curious amber stare.  "Not at all.  I've observed worse."

"I seem to recall hearing about the great Master Jinn and his many strays," Ben said, smiling and continuing to stir food around on his plate.  He was bludgeoning a piece of fruit into a hapless pulp with no evident sign of intending to eat it.  The crow gave this display a disgusted look and resumed eating. 

"The Force is having its revenge on me, however."  Qui-Gon reached out and stroked Jeimor's glossy black feathers.  The crow murmured happily and pushed back against the caress.  "My current Padawan brings home stray mechanicals.  Some days our quarters look like a salute to artificial life."

The faint smile resurfaced, but Qui-Gon was almost certain it carried a measure of sadness with it.  "I have heard from reliable sources that it is a Padawan's duty to confound the Master," Lars said, looking at him with pale gray eyes.  Qui-Gon felt his heart constrict, the expression was so achingly familiar.  If he didn’t know better, he’d wonder if the Force had given his Padawan back to him.  He’d prayed for such a thing often enough, after all, but he knew better.  Obi-Wan was ash, nothing left of him now but particles drifting along on Naboo’s winds.

The younger man arched an eyebrow at him.  “I’m certain you didn’t come to the dining hall to discuss Padawans and their habits with this lowly Knight, Master Jinn.  Aren’t you hungry?  The breakfast cobbler is superb.”  He punctuated that statement by turning another piece of fruit into an unrecognizable glob.

Qui-Gon shook his head.  “I had hoped the sight of food might evoke some interest, but I was wrong.  And I don’t seem to be the only one suffering from lack of appetite, Knight Lars.”

“You can… please, call me Ben?” Lars murmured, ducking his head.  “There are enough people in this Temple who call me Knight Lars.”

Qui-Gon hesitated, feeling the pleading behind the request, the further echo of intense loneliness.  “Very well, Ben.”

Ben smiled, realizing the abused nature of his dish of food, and pushed it away before looking up.  “What’s your excuse, Master Jinn?”

“Please,” Qui-Gon said, with a smile of his own.  “If you’re going to insist on informal relations, then you should be addressing me by my first name.  Otherwise I might begin to panic and start thinking that Council members are coming to harass me.”

The grin that lit up Ben’s face was brilliant, and chased the shadows from his eyes.  “Very well, Qui-Gon.  I certainly have no wish to receive further treatments of the also-legendary Jinn Glare.”      

Qui-Gon felt his heart warm at the sound of his name on the man’s lips.  _Force_ , he thought.  _What the hell is wrong with me?_   “Jinn Glare?”

Ben shrugged.  “It’s this little frown, when, combined with the furrowing of the eyebrows, turns your eyes to ice and sends chills running down the backs of others.  Rather formidable.”

He grimaced at the description.  “I sound monstrous.”

“Only to people who don’t know you, I imagine,” Ben pointed out.  “What’s your lack of appetite being caused by, Qui-Gon?  I’ll tell if you tell.”

“Fair enough,” Qui-Gon conceded.  The crow chose that moment to emit a dainty burp before clambering up Ben’s arm to perch on his shoulder.  He watched the crow begin to groom Ben’s hair, and caught himself wondering if those copper locks were as soft as they looked.  He laced his fingers together and rested his hands in his lap, unsettled by the thought.  “I had a nightmare.”

“Jedi don’t have nightmares,” Ben replied, no censure in his voice.  Nor was there a hint that he actually believed that silly mantra.

“This one does,” Qui-Gon said with a rueful smile.  “Don’t tell anyone that I gave away our secret.”

“Tell me about it?” Ben requested softly.  There was genuine concern in his eyes, a desire to listen. 

“You may already know what happened to my last Padawan.  It’s… common knowledge.”

Ben closed his eyes for a brief moment.  “Yes.  The Naboo invasion.”

“I’ve had nightmares about it ever since,” Qui-Gon admitted.  Strange how easy it was to hand that truth to Ben, when after a decade of such dreams, only Anakin, Yoda, and Mace Windu knew about them.  “But last night was… different.”

“How?” Ben asked, curious.

Qui-Gon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “You likely also know that he was killed by a Sith.”  Ben nodded in confirmation, and Qui-Gon couldn’t hold back a bitter smile.  “The Temple rumor mill is efficient as ever, it seems.”

“Perhaps more so,” Ben mused, “as the new Knight Lars is currently the subject to gossip about.  I like it when people who do not recognize me come along and inform me of the strange and lewd things I have apparently been up to.”

Qui-Gon smiled at Ben’s serious tone, seeing the flashes of humor in his eyes.  His words made Qui-Gon feel a bit better, whereas unnecessary platitudes tended to just make him angry.  “Forgive me.”

Ben lifted one hand in the air and tipped it at him.  “There is nothing to forgive.  If I’m making you uncomfortable, I can leave—”

“No,” Qui-Gon caught the other's man’s hand in his own before he even realized what he was doing.  “Please.  I—I need to discuss this with someone.”  He released Ben's hand, embarrassed at his lack of control.  “And you were here first,” he said.  “It would be wrong of me to ask you to leave.”

Ben was staring down at his fingers, as if stunned by the contact.  “Very well,” Ben said at last, conceding the point.  “Please, continue.”

“Every nightmare is… his death,” Qui-Gon said, trying to put his thoughts in order, to speak without choking on the overwhelming sense of loss and grief that always assailed him when he spoke of Obi-Wan.  “It’s always the same—the environment, the outcome, those involved.  My memory of that day is ingrained in my mind, something I will never forget.”  There was a flash of… something in Ben’s eyes.  Pain?  Sympathy?  Qui-Gon couldn’t tell.  “Last night, however, was not the same at all.  I have never laid eyes upon the surroundings we were in, and the… the method had changed as well.”  He released a breath, trying to release his anxiety with it.  It had been welling up since that morning, when he had awoken to find his pants and sheets soaked through with sweat.  “It was…”

“Terrifying?” Ben supplied. 

Qui-Gon nodded, lifting his hands up and laying them on the table with slow, careful motions to keep them from trembling.  “Terrifying,” he agreed.  The haunted expression had returned to Ben’s face, making him seem even younger than the thirty Standard he appeared to be.  “What about you?”

Ben leaned back in his seat, to Jeimor’s displeasure.  The crow hmphed and hopped onto the back of the chair for a more stable perch.  “I don’t sleep much,” Ben said, focusing somewhere over Qui-Gon’s left shoulder, his eyes distant.  “I don’t need to, really, which seems to be another effect of the bond I have with Jeimor.  He sleeps enough for both of us,” he said, smiling when the crow made a grumbling sound.  “But after last night, it may be awhile before I have any desire to sleep again.”

Qui-Gon studied the other man's posture and expression.  “Nightmare?”

Ben smiled, grim-faced.  “Oh, yes.”  He met Qui-Gon's eyes.  “Tell me:  Did your dreams involve a man in a dark cloak?  A man whose face you could never see?”

Qui-Gon froze for a moment.  He well remembered the human form, draped in darkness both physical and other, his face invisible under the depths of his hood.  “Yes,” he whispered.  “How did you know?”

Ben’s eyes lost their focus once more, and Qui-Gon wondered if he was reliving whatever it was he had dreamed last night.  “I saw him as well.  The situation was… unpleasant, at best.”  He took a deep, ragged breath.  “He is the Sith.”

It was like his blood had been replaced by ice water.  “You’re certain?” Qui-Gon asked—and in the next moment he didn’t need Ben to answer.  The Force murmured the accuracy of the identification to him.  The Darkness that had shrouded the man had not been produced by his own demons, no matter that he had thought it so.  Qui-Gon knew himself to be depressed, not malicious. 

Ben was staring at him.  “Tell me what he did to you.”

Qui-Gon pulled himself together with an effort, forcing himself to relate the details of the dream with near-clinical detachment.  “He did nothing to me.  He tortured my Padawan, murdered him while I watched.  I could do nothing.”  He lowered his head, forcing himself to breathe as if nothing was wrong.  That part of the dream was consistent, as always.  He could never save Obi-Wan, and had battled for years the crippling guilt that resurfaced every time he dreamed of his Padawan's death.  His only measure of success was that he had yet to throw himself off of a Temple balcony.

“I'm sorry,” Ben whispered.  “I did not mean to cause you pain.”

Qui-Gon uttered a short, miserable laugh, looking up at Ben.  “Don't apologize.  You are not the cause.”

To his confusion, the younger man flinched.  “Nevertheless, I have been prying.  Forgive me.”

Qui-Gon shook his head.  “Forgiven,” he said.  “I…”  He sighed again.  “I miss him terribly.”

“Do you?” Ben asked, his voice faint. 

Qui-Gon smiled, and even to him it felt forced.  “Every day.  But… it doesn’t matter.  It’s your turn, Ben.  What did you dream of?”

Ben gave him a tight, brittle smile.  “The Sith Lord took great delight in breaking every bone in my body with the Force.  It might not have been so bad if he hadn't been uttering this horrible little laugh while he did it.  There… might have been more, but I woke myself up screaming before the dream could progress any further.  I wasn’t in the mood to stick around.”

Qui-Gon swallowed at the blunt recital, and felt himself pale.  “That sounds...painful.”  _And familiar._  

“That’s putting it mildly,” Ben drawled.  He studied Qui-Gon with intense gray eyes, and at the same moment, the crow turned his amber gaze on Qui-Gon as well.  He resisted the urge to shift under those two gazes.  There was power and intensity there where almost none had been present before, and it was like being judged.

Ben must have come to a decision, because he stood, picking up his tray while Jeimor scrambled to regain his shoulder perch.  “Do you have a spare moment, Qui-Gon?” he asked.

Qui-Gon stood up as well, curiosity warring with caution, coupled with the desire to spend more time in the mysterious Knight’s company.  “I have several,” he replied.  “What can I do for you, Ben?”

“I’d like to introduce you to a personal project of mine,” Ben said cryptically.  “I would appreciate your input.”

Qui-Gon was intrigued.  He knew Ben never left Coruscant, but whatever task the Council had assigned him was being kept quiet.  “I would be delighted to help, though I don’t yet know what you’re up to.”

Ben frowned.  “You’ll see, though when you find out, you may well change your mind.”  He walked over to the waste receptacle to dump the contents of his tray, handing the empty item to an ill-tempered cleaning droid.  Qui-Gon waited, watching, trying to rein in his emotions. 

_The Sith took great delight in breaking every bone in my body with the Force._

Qui-Gon closed his eyes.  He could still see Obi-Wan, held in the air by an invisible hand, eyes wide with pain and shock.  His short red hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat, and behind him the Sith was laughing, the sound emerging like poisonous vapors from beneath the dark cowl.  Then Obi-Wan was screaming in agony once more, the sound of bones snapping under invisible pressure stark and horrible to hear. 

There was a touch on his arm, and he opened his eyes to find Ben regarding him with solemn eyes.  “Ready?”

He nodded, pulling Jedi serenity around himself like a second cloak as he followed the younger man from the dining hall.  It wasn’t just physical; there was a connection between Ben Lars and Obi-Wan Kenobi, tying their fates together.  Hell, for all he knew, the dream was a warning about Ben Lars’s future, and his sleeping mind had substituted Obi-Wan based on their similar appearance.  Either way, on each side of the equation, a Sith awaited. 

**Attrition**

 

Qui-Gon was surprised to discover that Ben Lars had quarters only two levels down from his own.  As far as the tower layout went, they were practically neighbors.  “So close, and I never realized,” he murmured.

Ben raised an eyebrow.  “That depends entirely on your point of view.  For much of the past month, you and your Padawan have been off-planet, dealing with the Separatist border disputes.”

Qui-Gon smiled.  “True.  So, what is—what the hell?” he blurted out the moment Ben opened the door to his quarters.

Ben led him inside, a hint of a smirk on his face.  “Just watch where you step.”

Qui-Gon let the door shut behind him and came to a halt, trying to take in what he was seeing.  Ben’s walls were covered with flimplast sheets of various colors, and all of them were full of printed information that was sometimes marked by a dark-colored scrawl that must have been Ben’s handwriting.  There were stacks of papers and flimplast all over the floor, along with several boxes that were brimming over with data disks.  There were paths to wade around the organized mess; otherwise, the floor was impassable.  Ben, after shucking his robe, was navigating his way through the room with easy steps.  The only space that seemed to be untouched was the kitchen.  Qui-Gon could see stacks of flimplast even in the single bedroom.  

He turned to Ben, who had stopped by the far wall and was leaning against it with his arms crossed.  “Did you paper the ‘fresher as well?”

Ben smiled.  “Of course not.  The ‘plast would curl from the steam.”

“What is this?” Qui-Gon asked, taking a step forward, relieved when none of the stacks came down.  He took off his robe, hanging it on a peg next to the dark gray one Ben wore.

Ben only lifted his arm in invitation.  “Take a look,” he said.  “You can ignore what’s on the floor, though.  I’ve already sorted through what I need.  The important things are on the walls.  Start…” Ben thought for a moment before pointing to a pink sheet of ‘plast on the wall a few feet away from Qui-Gon.  “There.”

Qui-Gon shrugged and did so, curiosity winning out over confusion.  Before he knew it he was absorbed, moving slowly from one piece of flimplast to the next, tracing facts and figures, money trails and names.  The Trade Federation had a starring role, as did some of his former Master’s dealings.  The Techno Union popped up, unsurprisingly, as well as the Corporate Alliance, but the Commerce Guild was new—he hadn’t seen a representative from that body at Dooku’s meeting on Geonosis. 

The more Qui-Gon read, the more involved it got, and the more the black scrawl of notes appeared in the sparse margins, pointing out connections that Qui-Gon might otherwise have missed.  By the time he’d made it halfway around the room, he was in shock; by the time he had read over every document on Ben’s walls, his mind was numb at the implications.

Ben appeared as if summoned, holding out a cup of steaming tea.  “You look as if you could use this.” 

He nodded his thanks.  “Very much so.”  He followed the younger man into a kitchen that was neat and orderly, a nice change from the controlled chaos of the living area.  Ben pulled out one of the two chairs, waiting for Qui-Gon to take a seat before joining him.

Ben sipped his own tea, made a face, and then put it aside.  “What did you see?”

Qui-Gon drained half of his tea and then wrapped his hands around the warm mug.  “Funny.  Usually I’m the one asking that question.”

Ben gave him another one of those dazzling grins.  “Turnabout is fair play, Master Jinn,” he said.  “What did you see?”

“I see a trail of corruption that stretches back for at least fifteen years,” Qui-Gon said, frowning.  “It involves most of the outlying corporate superpowers, as well as a few Inner Rim corporations.  There is a long chain of money and favors changing hands, several dozen assassinations, coups, and claiming of territory.  In short, I see the formation of the Confederacy.”

Ben nodded in agreement.  “What else?” 

Qui-Gon put his mug down, staring into clear gray eyes that seemed to burn with their own fire, so intense was the man’s gaze.  “They’re meant to lose.  The war that the Confederacy has been convinced to start will create the end of every corporation involved in its founding.”

Ben raised his mug at him in pseudo-salute.  “Very good.”

Qui-Gon exhaled and leaned back in his chair.  “I thought… I hoped I was wrong.  Force!  Why the hell hasn’t anyone else seen this?!  The implications are—”

“Frightening,” Ben supplied for him once more, when Qui-Gon couldn’t figure out what he wanted to say.  “There are only two reasons to fabricate a war that I can think of that fits this situation.  The first would be for profit, and considering the money that would have to be poured into both fronts…” Ben shook his head.  “The Confederacy will _not_ profit from a war against the Republic, not with those cloned troops now available.  Without their presence, the Separatists could have waged a successful war for secession, setting their own rules for trade, but no longer.”

“And the Republic will not profit, either, because now there is a brand-new war machine to fuel, and the cost will be exorbitant,” Qui-Gon agreed.  “You could buy entire systems with the amount of money we’re talking about.”

“The other reason I can think of to start a war is based upon fear.  Stir up enough terror, and you carve the path towards controlling that populace.  A people that crave safety can be convinced to give up damned near anything.” 

“I would argue against that, but considering how long our Chancellor has been in office due to a series of emergencies…” Qui-Gon shook his head.  “And now he has emergency powers, martial law has been declared, and we’re on the cusp of a major war with the Confederacy.”

“Mm.  All seems to be coming together rather well, doesn’t it?” Ben said, picking up his mug once more.  He glared down at the tea inside, as if it were not quite what he wanted.  “What else did you notice?”

Back to that again.  Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow.  “Will I be graded on this test, Knight Lars?”

Ben bit his lip, lowering his eyes as he blushed.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to push.”

“It’s all right,” Qui-Gon assured him, feeling a touch of guilt.  Ben Lars had seemed more open, more playful, and with the wrong choice of words he’d shut the man down.  “Given the seriousness of the situation, that was rather callous of me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ben said, though his expression remained pensive.  “I’ll tell you what the last thing is, what I noticed in that pattern of transactions.  It’s all being manipulated by one person, one who has access to a great deal of money, power, and influence.  Not only do I believe that this is the work of the Sith Lord, I believe he’s right here on Coruscant.”

“Which is where your trail ends.”  Qui-Gon drank more of his cooling tea, contemplating the matter.  The Order had long theorized that the Separatist crisis was being used by the Sith, or perhaps was a result of a Sith’s manipulations, but Ben had taken those theories and provided evidence for them.  Knowing the Sith was on Coruscant was both useful and frustrating, for if that was true, _why couldn’t they sense the bastard?_  

“Unfortunately,” said Ben, finally putting his mug down in disgust.

“Unless you’ve found something else?” Qui-Gon asked, studying Ben and feeling eddies of the Force swirl around them. 

“I can’t trace the patterns any farther than that.”  Ben hesitated.  “But yes, there is something else.  Any time I consider where to look for the Sith…”  He raised his hand, pointing.  “That way.  Always that way,” he whispered.  “No matter where I am on this planet.”

There was no window in the direction that Ben pointed, but Qui-Gon didn’t need one.  “The Senate District,” he said, trying to ignore the chill he felt.  There was something primal about Ben in that moment, something that went beyond Qui-Gon’s experience with the Force.

Ben dropped his hand, and the sensation vanished.  “Yes, which doesn’t exactly narrow it down.  There are very few residents of that district that _aren’t_ possessed of power, money, and opportunity.  He’s good, whoever he is,” Ben mused, staring down at the tabletop in thought.  “That particular set of patterns was hard enough to find.  The Force could only do so much through a data screen, so I printed it all out.  I’m psychometric,” he said, looking at Qui-Gon and holding up his hands.  “It was easier to find the pattern using touch than it was with my eyes.”

“Hence having enough paper and flimplast in your quarters to constitute a fire hazard,” Qui-Gon smiled.  Then he frowned, putting his tea mug down as realization struck him.  He’d grabbed Ben’s hand in the dining hall.  Being psychometric meant that Ben read memories through his fingers, like Quinlan Vos, and Qui-Gon’s thoughts had definitely been focused on painful subjects.  “Oh, Force—Ben, I’m so sorry.”

Ben gave him a lopsided smile.  “It’s all right.  I mean, it only took every single bit of my willpower not to run screaming from the hall, but that seems to be a normal occurrence lately.  Don’t let it bother you.” 

“You could wear gloves,” Qui-Gon said, feeling utterly foolish, unsure how to make up for invading the man’s privacy in such a way.  “Vos says that it helps.”

Ben grimaced.  “I tried.  It doesn’t work.  I see what I see, whether I like it or not.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Qui-Gon said gently.  “I’ll try to refrain from touching you by accident.”

“Sort of puts a damper on thoughts of intimacy, doesn’t it?” Ben said, and then his eyes widened as he blushed fiery red.  “I am _so_ sorry, I did not mean to say that out loud and _shut up, Jeimor!_ ” Ben yelled. 

From the bedroom, Qui-Gon could hear an incessant, laughing caw that made him grin.  “Teasing you, is he?”

“He’s a fucking bastard, is what he is!” Ben shouted, and then he buried his face in his hands.  “Oh, gods, I’m sorry.  I’ve been staring at ‘plast for so long that I think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Then I shall merely admit to my relief at not being the only one harboring thoughts of intimacy,” Qui-Gon said, and the flush on Ben’s face spread far enough to color his ears bright pink.

“Please don’t tease me,” the man muttered into his hands.  “It’s not fair.  My life is weird enough.”

“I promise I won’t tease you that way unless you ask me to,” Qui-Gon replied.  “In the meantime, perhaps, we shall walk slowly down this path, and see where it leads us.”

Ben raised his head, staring at Qui-Gon, his lips parted in surprise.  “Can… can we?” he asked, his voice hesitant.  “Can we really?”

Qui-Gon listened, hearing promising whispers from the Force telling him that this was, indeed, a good idea.  He wanted to know Ben Lars, wanted to finally overcome that horrible sense of loss that had mired his heart for over a decade.  “I think so.”

Ben smiled.  “I’d like that.”

           

_“To hold a pen is to be at war.”_

_–Voltaire_

 

“I am a fucking idiot, I am a moron, why the _fuck_ did I do that!” Obi-Wan yelled thirteen hours later.

Jeimor paused in the midst of eating his snack, a giant beetle he’d found trundling along the rooftop.  -Because you’re a fucking idiot?- the crow suggested.

“I already said that.  Pick something else,” Obi-Wan said, sitting down on the edge of the roof, letting his legs swing over the side before he hunched over, pressed his chin into his palm, and thought seriously about sulking. 

-Relax, Kid- Jeimor said, joining Obi-Wan in several short hops.  -There’s nothing wrong with dating a Jedi Master.  Besides, you like him, he likes you.-

“He likes Ben Lars,” Obi-Wan said, feeling miserable and heartsick.  By the gods, he’d _basked_ in the attraction Qui-Gon felt for him, revealed by the few seconds their hands had touched.  For a few hours, he’d allowed that knowledge to overwhelm all of his common sense.  Once Qui-Gon had left Obi-Wan’s quarters, though, the reality of the situation had come crashing down on his head.  He’d blundered, and blundered badly, by inviting Qui-Gon into his life once more. 

-Well, since Ben Lars is _you_ , you’re in luck.-

“It’s not… it’s not the same,” Obi-Wan said, standing up and pacing along the roof’s edge.  “Ben Lars is just a means to an end.”

-Yeah, well, I’ve heard humans say that any method of getting to the sex is a means to an end, too- the crow said, spreading his wings in a stretch. 

“That… really doesn’t help,” Obi-Wan said, smiling despite his foul mood. 

-So, focus on something else for awhile- Jeimor suggested.  -You’re letting yourself get pent up again.  Time for a run.-

Obi-Wan nodded.  “Now that sounds like a good idea,” he said, and Jeimor cawed in delight before hopping off of the roof, flapping his wings and soaring off into the dark.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath, turning to face the wind and the open air below.  All of Coruscant lay before him, a multitude of glittering lights in the dark, stretching out from his vantage point on the tallest Temple spire.

-Hurry the hell up!- Jeimor called.

He grinned and spread his arms, letting gravity pull him over the brink, letting himself fall.  The wind caught at his cloak, pulling and tugging at the cloth, at his hair, making his eyes stream as he fell.  _I hope no one’s looking out a window,_ he thought giddily.  He didn’t want to frighten anyone into believing that someone had just committed suicide via rooftop.

Obi-Wan landed with a soft thud on the North tower, ran across the peak and then jumped again, laughing as he fell through the air, feeling unbound and free.  These times with Jeimor were precious to him, exhilarating moments that allowed him to just exist, to just feel.  Always, always he could feel the pull, the urge to do what must be done, but as the wind rushed past him, it was almost like silence.

-We going to kick the crap out of anyone tonight, golden boy?- the crow asked, as Obi-Wan used a touch of the Force to direct his fall, coming down on a rooftop at the edge of the Temple District. 

“We weren’t supposed to kick the crap out of _anyone_ during any of these little trips,” Obi-Wan retorted, straightening his cloak.  “We’re supposed to be looking for the Sith.”

-Eh, you needed to blow off some stress anyway.  Trust me, Kid, paperwork is _not_ what my girl had in mind when she sent you back here.  If you can’t use that energy to fight the Sith, you’ve got to use it somehow, or you’ll start burning up.-

“That doesn’t sound good,” Obi-Wan said, leaping off the edge of the building and landing in a crouch in the middle of the street.  It was almost deserted at this time of night, though a denizen sheltering in a doorway squawked in surprise at his sudden appearance.  “Hello!” Obi-Wan greeted her cheerfully as he stood up, walking on while Jeimor sailed down to join him.

“Hello,” the woman replied, her voice a faint whisper.  “By the gods, they’ve sent us a messenger,” she mumbled reverently, and poured out the brandy from the bottle she’d been clutching.

“Are you talking literal fire, or metaphysical fire?” Obi-Wan asked, not hearing the woman’s muttered comment over the sound of Jeimor’s fluttering wings.

-Metaphysical, but it won’t make much difference- Jeimor said, resuming his place on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.  -The energy you have will build up when not expended.  The surest way to disperse that energy is to defeat the Sith, but then that also disperses you.-

“Because that energy is what keeps me breathing,” Obi-Wan realized.  “Can I expend all of that energy, disperse myself, without finishing the job?”

Jeimor clacked his beak, falling silent long enough that Obi-Wan glanced at him in concern.  -I don’t know- the crow said at last.  -I don’t think I’d try it, if I were you.-

“Anything that makes you nervous can’t be good.”  He paused, swearing under his breath; without realizing it he’d turned his steps in the direction of the Senate District once more.  Still, who knew?  Maybe he’d get lucky and cross paths with the Sith. 

-Oh, so you consider that lucky now, huh?- Jeimor teased.

“At this rate, I might as well,” Obi-Wan grumbled, glancing around before dropping off the edge of the walkway, falling two levels before landing in the shadows of one of the more traversed paths for the nocturnal set.  He watched as Senate aides rushed past, off on late night errands for Senators and Representatives.  Also walking by were those heading towards the club district, ready to spend their night blowing through credits in an effort to relax.  _Unless I want to touch every single being in the Senate District, and that could take months._

-True- Jeimor acknowledged, ruffling his feathers and shifting his weight on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.  -This job is turning out to be a hell of a lot harder than I expected.-

 _Do you regret taking it?_ Obi-Wan asked, letting his eyes rove over the crowds as they passed, letting his senses direct his gaze. 

Oh.  Well, now.  He followed the progress of the dark-haired man, taking note of his eyes, and the way he kept within the crowd, never apart from it, never alone. 

-Not at all.  I’m having fun!- said the crow, as Obi-Wan melted out of the shadows, drawing his hood up to mask his features as he began following the other man.  -And so are you, I see.  Who’re we following today?-

 _Well, unless I’m mistaken, that’s Bail Organa, Senator of Alderaan._ He smiled.  _We were friends, once, though I didn’t see much of him in the last two years before my death._

-And we’re tailing him why?- Jeimor wanted to know, keeping himself hidden within the confines of Obi-Wan’s hood.

 _He’s nervous._   Bail was hiding it well, but Obi-Wan had known him through the other’s tenure as junior Representative, thanks to Qui-Gon’s long association with the Organa household.  Bail was keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings, trying to make it seem as if he was with the club crowds.  He was doing a good job, too.

Obi-Wan was better.  He followed Bail as he left the walkway, riding on top of the lift as the other man used it to travel four levels down.  Obi-Wan kept his awareness spread out, battle ready, in case the followers Bail seemed concerned with pinged his awareness.

Bail met another being by a terminal, one who remained cloaked and joined him without saying a word.  Curious. 

By the time they’d picked up a third companion, this one sporting a mask popular at one of the downlevel clubs, Obi-Wan was dashing along a series of rooftops above them, keeping pace with silent footfalls.  -My, oh my- Jeimor said.  -Clandestine meetings in the dark.  Naughty, naughty Senator Organa.-

The three of them disappeared into a section of building that might once have housed offices, but now had a large sign displayed on its upper level, announcing that the space was available to be leased.  “Jeimor,” Obi-Wan murmured, pushing back his hood. 

The crow launched himself, his wings spread to catch the air.  Obi-Wan waited, watching his companion’s flight.  -Here- Jeimor announced a few moments later.  -Three levels up.  Pretty decent crowd.  Lucky for you, they chose a meeting place with a window.-

Obi-Wan nodded and leapt up, catching the outer facing of the building with his hands, scrambling up the wall.  There was barely enough purchase for his fingernails, but he’d become adept at getting himself into places that would have been difficult, if not outright impossible, to accomplish when he was still alive.  He settled onto a ledge three levels up, a decorative bit of duracrete that was barely wide enough to put a leg up on, and pressed his back against the cold mortar.  The wind buffeted him, his position more exposed to the elements.  He ignored it.  _Jeimor, let me see._

**Shadowplay**

 

His vision shifted; all color bled from his world, and his perspective became a mongrel trapezoid shape that moved around each time Jeimor turned his head.  It was, to be honest, disorienting as hell, but he’d been growing used to it in the weeks since the crow had shown him the trick.

Obi-Wan was looking into the window that Jeimor had told him about.  It was inset high above the floor, and he was peering down at a table with one eye, trying to ignore his awareness of the cityscape the other eye provided.  Bail was at the table, seated next to a red-haired human woman that Obi-Wan didn’t recognize.  Next to her was Giddean Danu, whom he knew because of the man’s connections to the Kuat shipyards.  There was also a male Rodian, sitting on the opposite side of the table next to old Fang Zar, Senator for the Sern sector.  And next to Zar…

“Well, well,” he muttered to himself, as the crow tilted his head, his sight tilting with it.  Senator Padmé Amidala was there as well, but she didn’t look pleased about it.  Obi-Wan leaned his head back against the wall, letting the crow’s hearing become his own.

“–I just don’t think that skulking around in the dark is the way to go about this,” Amidala was saying, anger in her voice.  “We are all Senators of the Galactic Republic, and if we raise our voices, they _will_ be heard.”

“Good luck with that,” Danu said.  “Since the Military Creation Act passed, it’s hard for any member of the Loyalist Committee to gain access to the Chancellor’s offices, let alone get a motion through Mas Amedda.  You missed out on some changes during that assassination attempt on your life and the Geonosis skirmish.  Your Gungan Representative gave away our voice with one garbled request.”

Amidala narrowed her eyes.  “Jar Jar Binks may have said the words, but I seem to recall it was a majority vote from the Senate that passed the Act, and _your_ vote was in that majority, Senator.”

“Enough, enough,” Bail interrupted them before Danu could respond.  “We didn’t come here for that.  Padmé, I understand what you’re saying, so I will reiterate what I mentioned before.  Anyone who does not wish to be a part of this, leave now, and it will not be held against you.”

Amidala frowned.  “Bail, do you really believe that this is the only way?”

The red-haired Senator spoke up.  “He does, and I do, and if Garm would show up once in awhile, he would tell you so as well.  The Senate’s power is growing weaker by the day, Padmé.  I don’t yet know what we can do about such a thing, but I am not willing to simply stand by and watch it happen.”

“First we must find our allies,” the Rodian said.  “We must find out who among us is loyal to the Chancellor, who is loyal only to themselves, and who is loyal to the Republic.”  He sighed.  “If these border skirmishes are going to become a war, I would really like to know who to trust to guard my back.”

“I feel the same way,” Senator Zar said, crossing his arms.  “And I think Onaconda has a good idea—find allies first, because for now we are only Loyalists within the Loyalist Committee and thus, we might as well _be_ the enemy.” 

“You know that we could all be thrown in jail for treason if word of what we’re speaking of gets out,” Amidala said.

“Well, that is the—hey, what’s that?” Bail asked.  The image tilted again, and Obi-Wan found himself meeting Bail’s eyes.

“That is one of the biggest damn birds I’ve ever seen on this planet,” Zar said, grinning.

Obi-Wan flinched as Jeimor cawed, the sound loud enough to ring through his head.  “Yeah, well, he needs to find a new place to hang out,” Bail said, and the next thing Obi-Wan knew a datapad was sailing through the air, directly at his face.

-Fuck!- Jeimor squawked, leaping back from the device even as it bounced off the glass.  -You asshole!-

Obi-Wan was looking through his own eyes again, hearing the wind blow past his own ears, and clutched at the wall in surprise before he could fall off.  “Fuck!” he yelled. 

-Uh oh.  I think the grumpy Senator recognizes me- Jeimor said.  -What do you want to do?-

Obi-Wan smiled.  “Let’s see how loyal they really are.”

 

 

Padmé frowned, looking out the dark window.  The bird reminded her far too much of the one that had stayed with the copper-haired Jedi, the one who had killed Dooku.  Anakin had told her later that his name was Ben Lars, but she’d seen him after Master Yoda had wiped the dust from his face, and her first thought had been to wonder if Obi-Wan Kenobi had a twin brother. 

“Anything?” Bail asked.

“No, it must have gone,” Padmé said, bending down to retrieve his datapad.  She straightened, turned, and gasped in surprise, her hand going for the blaster she wasn’t carrying.

Bail whipped around, lightning fast, his own blaster retrieved and aimed in the blink of an eye.  The other Senators turned; Fang Zar got to his feet, an angry scowl on his face.  “Who the hell are you?”

A figure cloaked in gray was standing in front of the closed door to their meeting place, his features shadowed by his hood.  The crow that had been outside was perched on his shoulder.  “Just a curious bystander,” the intruder murmured, his voice soft, “who happened to overhear something interesting.  Tell me, do you really believe our democracy is dying?”

Mon Mothma frowned at Bail’s blaster, and then turned a cool gaze at their uninvited guest.  “I do believe that,” she said, regarding the cloaked figure without the slightest trace of fear.  It was one of the many reasons why Padmé adored the woman. 

“Hmm.  Interesting.”  The cloaked figure seemed to tilt his head.  “I suppose I was just wondering how loyal to the Republic you truly are.”

“What do you mean?” Onaconda hissed out.

“Well, I was thinking about wandering over to the Senate Dome, the better to let it slip that a group of Loyalist Senators were plotting treason—”

Bail’s blaster cut him off mid-sentence when he fired, the bolt striking the cloaked figure square in the chest.  Danu’s shot struck him just below Bail’s, and the man staggered back with a pained cry before falling to his knees.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mon Mothma roared, while Padmé stared, stunned by what she had just witnessed.

But that wasn’t near as shocking as hearing the cloaked figure begin to laugh.  “Well!” he said, climbing back to his feet.  “Ask question, get answer!” he said, and laughed again.  The crow, she noticed, hadn’t moved at all. 

“Nice armor,” Bail said, lifting his blaster again.  “Do I need to go for a headshot?”

“Nah, you were always miserable at those,” the cloaked figure said, and pulled back his hood. 

“Lars!” she said, in the exact same breath that Bail blurted out, “Obi-Wan!”  She and Bail paused, startled, and stared at each other in puzzled amazement.

“You’re both right!” Lars said, grinning and holding up his hand, wagging his finger at them.  “You win a prize, and it’s called _please_ stop shooting me, I’m running out of shirts.”  The crow cawed its agreement, the sound echoing in the small, abandoned office.

“But—you… you can’t be here,” Padmé whispered, staring at the long copper hair and neatly trimmed beard.  The dust was back on his face, gray and black, and the darkness around his eyes highlighted their blue-green color.  She’d admired those eyes, admired the compact body and quiet, self-contained persona of the Jedi Padawan who’d helped free her people before dying under a Sith’s blade.  “I watched them burn your body!”

Bail let his blaster clatter to the tabletop, his eyes wide, his skin pale.  “Is it—it is you, isn’t it?”

“I’m going to rephrase my question,” Fang Zar said, his confused anger like a stormcloud.  “What the _hell_ is going on here?!”

“Ah, let me answer that, while they sort themselves out,” Lars—no, Obi-Wan, said, smiling.  “Greetings to you, Senator Zar, Senator Onaconda… Far, correct?”  The Rodian man nodded cautiously.  “And to you, Senator Danu, and, well.  Senator Amidala and I have already met.  Yes, it’s me, pick your mouth up off the floor, Bail,” he added, stepping forward and putting two fingers underneath Bail’s chin, closing his mouth with gentle pressure. 

“You’re supposed to be _dead_!” Bail gasped, and then pulled Obi-Wan into his arms.  Obi-Wan hugged him, just before Bail pulled back, looking even more shocked than before.  “You’re not wearing body armor,” Bail whispered.

“Nope!” Obi-Wan agreed, maintaining that same, cheerful smile. 

“Then you really should be dead,” Padmé said, realizing her own mouth was hanging open.

“Yes, especially after you all _shot me_ ,” Obi-Wan retorted, rolling his eyes.  “Now, back to your question, Senator Zar.  I’m looking for a Sith Lord who happens to have created his power base somewhere in the Senate District. You lot, if I heard correctly, are trying to find out why the Republic seems to be on the verge of collapsing around your ears.”  He pulled out a chair, sat down at the table, and put his booted feet up on the tabletop in three swift movements that made Mon Mothma jump.

Mon Mothma swallowed and licked her lips before venturing to speak.  “You are Ben Lars, the Jedi who killed Count Dooku, leader of the Confederacy.”  Obi-Wan nodded.  “And you’re also… Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Padawan who was killed by the Sith during the Battle of Theed.” 

He waved at her in agreement; Padmé felt all of the air leave her lungs in a rush and sat down hard in her chair. 

“Then...” Bail reached out and poked Obi-Wan in the shoulder with one finger.  “You’re awfully solid for a Force ghost.”

Mon Mothma pressed a hand to her chest, her fair skin even paler than usual.  “By the gods.  There are legends among my people about your kind, Jedi Kenobi.  Avatars and their guides, seeking vengeance for the wrongs done to them during life.”

Obi-Wan shrugged.  “I’ve heard that before.  Jedi do not seek revenge, though, Senator.  I’m here for other reasons.”

Giddean Danu cleared his throat, sitting back down in his chair, looking just as shocked as everyone else.  “So I’m sharing a table with a dead man.  Why not?  You Jedi are weird, anyway, and I should be used to that by now,” he said, and Obi-Wan laughed again, a clear, happy sound that was completely at odds with his otherworldly, impossible appearance.

Bail sat down as well, staring at Obi-Wan.  “Gods.”  He ran his hands through his hair, breathing out a long sigh.  “All right, I have to admit that this was not what I had in mind tonight, but… the hell with it.  I’ll go home and freak out later.  What do you think we can do for each other, Obi-Wan?”

“We have the same goal,” Obi-Wan said, gazing at each of them in turn.  When Padmé met his eyes, it was like he was peering into her soul, but the sensation left her feeling warm, not frightened.  Her earlier concerns about treasonous actions vanished.  If the Force had sent them an avatar, as Mon Mothma had called him, then they were in much more desperate, dire trouble than she’d ever realized. 

“You seek to make sure that the Republic still hears the voice of its people, I’m out to stop a Sith Lord.  I believe that the Sith is the very reason our Republic is in such danger.  In fact, I’ve even managed to prove it.”  Obi-Wan told them about the data patterns he’d traced, the information he’d uncovered, and the deception the Confederacy labored under.  It was enough to have Fang Zar growling things under his breath, to see the scope of what the Sith had conceived. 

“If this is true—and really, given what you’ve told us, I have little doubt that it is, _Avatairee,_ ” Onaconda began, resting his hands on the table, “the one you are looking for would have to be a member of the Senate.  If the Sith is indeed dwelling in the Senate district, only Senators have access to the things you have mentioned.  Our sycophants, aides, and employees—none have that sort of money, that kind of access.  Their lives are an open book; we Senators have certain privacies guaranteed us that others do not.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Obi-Wan muttered. 

Danu shook his head, looking frustrated.  “That’s all well and good, but even if you stop the Sith, the corruption he has started will not simply vanish.”

“That’s _our_ job, Senator,” Bail said, glaring at Danu.  “If the Sith is removed, then at least we have a chance to persuade our colleagues to vote down the emergency powers of the Chancellor, and perhaps we’ll the chance to regain our ability to do our jobs!”

“And I can’t get you lot even that far if I can’t find the bastard,” Obi-Wan pointed out, glancing at the crow.  “That’s over six thousand people that I don’t have access to.”

“Well, you’re…deceased.”  Danu sounded uncomfortable.  “Can’t you just—I don’t know, go do what you need to do?”

Obi-Wan frowned.  “Senator, no matter what name I go by, I was and am a Jedi.  Any action I undertake that seems less than ethical will reflect badly on the Order. Considering what I’ve seen in the past month, that could be just as disastrous as allowing the Sith to continue to orchestrate the Republic’s downfall.”

“Agreed,” Mon Mothma said, gazing at him with steel-gray eyes.  “What if _we_ can get you the access you need?”

“How?” Obi-Wan asked, dropping his feet back to the floor and leaning forward in his chair.  Even the crow seemed interested, giving Mon Mothma his full attention.

“There is a Senatorial gala, two weeks from today.  One of the Chancellor’s affairs,” she said with distaste.  “Supposedly it is meant to create goodwill between our fellow representatives, but it is more like the opportunity for clusters of us to stand around and gossip.  Perhaps we could invite you?”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.  “It would look rather odd for one lone Jedi to show up to such a thing, wouldn’t it?”

“So then we bully the rest of the Loyalist Committee into creating some sort of reason for your presence,” Bail mused.  “In fact, every member of the Committee can be tasked with inviting a Jedi to accompany them to this gala.  That means there will be at least twenty Jedi present, more if they have apprentices.  We can call it our attempt to show that the Senate and the Jedi still work in tandem, or some such nonsense.  The publicity opportunities will make even Chancellor Palpatine drool in anticipation.”

“I have reason to know of you, so I’ll invite Ben Lars,” Padmé said, and managed to smile at Obi-Wan when he looked at her.  “For political expediency, of course.”

“One thing,” Obi-Wan said, holding up his hand.  “Just as I will not betray any of you,” he glanced around the table, his gaze serious, “you must _not_ betray my identity.  I am Ben Lars to you, to the Jedi, to the public eye.  You cannot mention my involvement to anyone, not even to your husband, Senator Amidala,” he said, looking squarely at Padmé.

Padmé jerked back in her chair like his gaze was scalding.  “How do you know about that?!”

He smiled at her, and she saw that familiar, wry glint in his eyes.  “You forgot to take your wedding ring off.”

She looked down at her left hand, swore, and quickly yanked the silver ring off of her finger.  The traditions of her homeworld that she was expected to uphold were strict; her marriage meant that she and Anakin were supposed to retire, the better to concentrate on the family they were expected to create together.  “None of you heard a _word_ of that!” she yelled, furious with herself for the lapse. 

“Huh?  What?  I suddenly find myself struck deaf,” Fang Zar said, winking at her. 

Obi-Wan was on his feet in the next instant, his chin lifted, his eyes wide.  “You all need to go.  Right now.”

“What is it?” Bail asked, but he was already getting up, retrieving his blaster.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, his head turning from side to side, as if listening to something only he could hear.  “One of you was followed,” he murmured.  “Your identities… are safe,” he said, and opened his eyes.  “But there is definitely suspicion that something untoward is going on here, and your danger is great.  No!” he added, when Danu got up to palm open the door.  “Not that way.  The window.”

Danu glanced at the window and looked back at Obi-Wan, disbelieving.  “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I mean it,” Obi-Wan growled, pulling a monofilament cable off of his belt and pressing it into Danu’s hands.  “You must all get out of here without being identified, or we’re _all_ fucked!”  He raised his hand and flicked his fingers, and the window blew out like it had been shot.  “There’s a roof three levels down.  Get down there, use the fire escape system, and split up.  Get the hell out of here!”

Padmé walked over and took the cable from Danu before the stunned man could drop it.  “I’ll handle this,” she said, and got up onto the table with help from Bail.  She reached up and tied the cable to one of the ceiling supports with precise, strong knots before tossing the line out the window.  “You first, Mon Mothma.”

Mon Mothma took a deep breath and allowed Fang Zar to hoist her up into the window frame.  “I hate heights,” she whispered, before swinging her legs over and beginning to climb down.

“Just like old times, huh?” Bail said, helping Padmé down from the table.

Obi-Wan palmed open the door before offering them another broad grin.  “I’m going to go…interfere a bit.  It should give you all plenty of time to make your escape.”

Padmé shook her head, fighting a bewildering urge to laugh.  If she’d thought her life was strange before—waging a war to retake her capital, becoming a Senator, marrying a Jedi, fighting with cloned soldiers—it was nothing compared to how she felt now.  “Don’t get killed.”

Obi-Wan looked amused.  “Take your own advice, Highness.”

Bail snorted.  “You had better come and see me,” he told Obi-Wan.  “I don’t care what the hell you are.  You’re still my friend.”

Obi-Wan hesitated in the doorway.  “I—I’ll see you again, Bail,” he said, and then he was gone.

**Free Fall**

 

-You are a busy little Jedi!- Jeimor said approvingly, as Obi-Wan dashed through the abandoned chain of offices.  -Setting up alliances, rescuing Senators, fighting the bad guys—no wonder you schmucks have such short lifespans.-

“Not a good time!” Obi-Wan yelled at the crow as he reached the turbolift doors.  He could sense that the first of their guests were already ascending with great speed from the bottom of the building.  He growled and waved his hands, parting the doors with an agonized shriek of metal. 

-Whatcha gonna do?- Jeimor asked, hopping up and down on Obi-Wan’s shoulder in excitement. 

“Slow them down,” Obi-Wan said, waving his hand again as he called upon the Force.  Two heavy metal desks, covered in dust and long abandoned, slid across the floor and toppled down the open shaft.  A moment later there was a satisfying crash as the desks landed on top of the lift car.  “Turbolift recognizes an obstruction and halts at the closest floor.  Now they have to take the stairs.”

-Excellent- said the crow.  -Now do we kick some ass?-

Obi-Wan grinned.  “Yes, Jeimor,” he said, and the crow jumped off of his shoulder to fly ahead of him.

He ran to the far corner of the building, his senses guiding him unerringly to the stairwell, and he flew down the steps like he had his own set of wings.  Within two flights he could hear them coming.  One flight later and he was bodily slamming into three men wearing white armor.  They all tumbled down the stairs together in a jumble of arms and legs and shouted curses.  Obi-Wan allowed his body to go limp until he felt himself slide clear of them, ignoring the feel of hard edges pressing bruises into his flesh.

 _Wait,_ he thought, getting to his feet and flipping backwards, coming down on the landing two steps above his victims, hands raised to fend off whatever weapons they had.  _White?_

One of the white-armored men was not moving, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, but the other two clambered to their feet, already pointing their rifles at him.  “Halt!” one of them said menacingly.  “Identify yourself!”

“I’m the janitor,” Obi-Wan said, suddenly glad for the hood that still obscured his features.  These were clone troops, marked with colored sigils that were _not_ in any of the identification listings for the new Galactic military.  “And you’re getting dirt all over my nice clean stairs.”

The second one laughed.  “You’re under arrest for assaulting a security officer,” he said.  “And if I’m not mistaken, murder of an officer as well.  You can come quietly, or we can dispose of you now.  Your choice.”

“A security officer, huh?” Obi-Wan put his hands on his hips.  “Security officer for what?”

The first trooper spoke again.  “For protection of the Republic against treasonous acts and sedition from within.  We were informed that there was a potential for such action here tonight.”

“That’s enough, Eighty-Six,” the second soldier barked.  “You don’t need to tell him anything.  This scum has no rights.”

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes.  “Who informed you that there was potential treason being carried out in this building tonight?” he asked, pushing against the first clone soldier’s mind with the Force.

“I am not at liberty to divulge that information,” the trooper said.

“Dammit, Eighty-Six, will you _shut up?_ ”

Obi-Wan frowned and looked at the second soldier, the one who seemed to be in command.  “Who told you to come here tonight?”

“I am not at liberty to divulge that information,” the second trooper repeated, his voice empty of all emotion.

“Well, now that’s interesting,” Obi-Wan murmured.  “You don’t actually know, do you?”

-Time to go, Kid!- Jeimor warned him as he settled onto Obi-Wan’s shoulder.  -The others are free and clear, and there’s a lot more of these idiots on the way.-

 _Thought you wanted to kick some ass,_ Obi-Wan said, smiling.

-Hey, you’re the one who wants to protect your Order’s reputation.-

The second trooper shook his head, raising his blaster rifle once more.  “That’s enough!  You’re under arres—urk!”  His last word was lost to the crunch of his armor, which protected him from the fierce kick Obi-Wan gave him, but sent him head over heels down the stairwell.

“Hey!” the first soldier managed to yell, just before Obi-Wan shoved him down the stairs to join his commander.

“Bye-bye now,” Obi-Wan called, waving before turning and darting back up the stairs.  If he was right, they might indeed continue to suspect treason had been contemplated here tonight, but they would only be looking for one individual rogue, not a group.

He could hear pursuit, the clatter of rattling armor and the thud of many booted feet.  Reinforcements had caught up, and there were many.  He kept running, skipping the floor where Bail had held his meeting.

When he ran out of stairs, he pushed open a rusting emergency door, jumping down onto the roof a few feet below.  The wind rushed passed him, and he ran headlong into it, jumping to the next roof with his cloak flying out behind him.  The jump was an easy distance for anyone in good physical condition, and as he kept running he heard shouted curses before more thuds told him that the clones were still following.  He couldn’t risk using the Force again; no Jedi could be associated with what had taken place tonight.  It was a good thing he didn’t carry his lightsaber on these little jaunts, or they would have known what he was from the first breath. 

_I need to shake these guys._

-Then go somewhere that they can’t follow.-

 _That might hurt_ , Obi-Wan replied, thinking about the long drops that were the norm almost everywhere in the mid and upper levels of Coruscant. 

-Who gives a fuck?- Jeimor retorted.

 _Touché,_ Obi-Wan admitted.  Sometimes he still felt so alive that the thought of injuring himself intentionally was anathema. 

Either way, it was a moot point, for he’d just run out of roof on this level.  He paused at the edge of the last building, breathing easily despite the span of his run.  He stepped onto the decorative bricked ledge, waiting for his pursuers to catch up.

“Hands up!” a soldier barked.  Obi-Wan turned; there were at least six of them already circling him, and eight more weren’t far behind.  “There’s nowhere else for you to go!”

Obi-Wan raised his hands and pretended a fear he didn’t feel, which was difficult considering he was filled with a mocking amusement that felt like Jeimor’s.  “What are you going to do to me?” he said, his voice wobbling.  Too bad it was with suppressed laughter instead of anxiety, but they didn’t seem to notice the difference.

“You’re a traitor to the Republic,” another soldier barked.  “You’ll be executed for treason.”

“What?  With what evidence?” Obi-Wan shot back, skipping the fear and moving right on along to outrage.

“We are the Office of Republic Security,” a third trooper barked.  “Under our mandate, we don’t _need_ evidence.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, his mind was reeling.  How the hell had such an Office been created by the Senate?  Yes, they were a corrupt bunch of louts, but this Security nonsense was insane!  “Would it look bad for your squad if you failed to capture me?”

The original six were laughing as the others finally caught up.  “We’re not going to fail, traitor scum,” one of them said, resting his rifle on his shoulder.  “Come on.  We’ve got a nice cozy jail cell you can live out your final days in.  And hey, if you tell us about any co-conspirators, you might even earn yourself a pardon!”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Obi-Wan said, glancing down at the drop behind him.  “There’s…hmm.  There’s something that’s appropriate to say in these sorts of situations, isn’t there?  Ah, yes,” he said, and spread his arms.  “I’d rather die than betray my Republic,” he said, and rocked back on his heels, letting himself fall.

They were faster than he’d imagined—one of their rapid shots burned a hole in his right shoulder, and he hissed out a pained yelp that was lost to the wind as he fell.  No slowing his descent this time.  He had to hit where he hit, for they needed to believe him dead.  He rolled over in the air and hoped that the energy that held his body together would be able to compensate.

The fall was not an easy one.  Twice he bounced off of passing speeders as he plummeted through lanes of traffic, scaring the hell out of the drivers and causing at least half a dozen accidents.  He wiped blood off of his face from the last impact and looked down, trying to figure out where he was going to land.  Far below, approaching fast, was the shine of glass.  _Oh, fuck me,_ he swore, and closed his eyes.  This was not going to be pleasant.

 

_It is lamentable, that to be a good patriot one must become_

_the enemy of the rest of mankind._

_-Voltaire_

 

Dawn was his quiet time, the peaceful hour he could steal before his office was invaded, or the Council needed him, or the Senate requested his presence, or any number of myriad things that Mace Windu endured as Master of the Order.  He’d once thought it a great honor, that Master Yoda would bestow the title upon him, until he’d discovered what he’d let himself in for.  As it was, he was settled behind his desk, reviewing reports for that day’s Council session, when his door slid open.

“You know, it’s polite to knock,” he began, annoyed, before he realized who had darkened his doorway.  “Force, Ben,” he whispered, rising and catching the man before he could fall to the floor.  Mace shut the door, dragging Ben to one of the chairs in front of his desk and getting him settled into it.

“’lo, Master Windu,” Ben slurred, a faint smile on his face.  “Sorry ‘bout the rug.”

“Forget the damned rug,” Mace snapped.  The man looked awful, Avatar of the Force or not.  He was bleeding heavily—Mace’s tunic sleeves were soaked red just from a few moments’ contact.  Lines of blood were running down Ben’s dust-coated face, and his cloak and tunics were shredded and soaked with it.  “What happened?”

“Had to…pretend to suicide off a roof,” Ben said, reaching up and grabbing hold of something on his arm.  He gritted his teeth and pulled out a long sliver of blood-marred glass.  “Went through someone’s rooftop observatory.”

“Damn,” Mace hissed in sympathy, as Ben dropped the glass to the floor.  “Ben, you need a Healer.”

Ben shook his head.  “N—no.  Just…need help…getting the glass out.  It’ll heal.  Just can’t…get it out by m’self.”

Mace frowned and nodded.  “All right.  It won’t be pleasant, though.”

Ben breathed out a laugh.  “Can’t be…any less pleasant…than how I got this way.”

Mace spent a long time that morning focused on his task, using his fingers, the Force, and a pair of tiny metal tweezers to remove shards of glass from Ben’s body.  Each laceration healed as the glass was removed, which relieved him even as it unnerved him.  Jedi could heal as fast, yes, but neither of them drew upon the Force to deal with Ben’s wounds.

As he recovered, gaining strength as his body had a true chance to repair itself, Ben told him about what he’d learned during the night.  Mace scowled when Ben refused to divulge the Senator’s names, but at the same time, he understood the reasoning.  If this Security force had made it past even the Council’s notice, then they were all in grave danger.  “Why do you always bring me bad news, Obi-Wan Kenobi?” he said, pulling the last piece of glass from Ben’s back.

Ben slumped down in the chair, laying his head back, and sighed.  “I don’t intend for it to be a habit, believe me.  But this is dire, Mace.  How the hell has the Republic come to this in a mere ten years?”

Mace shook his head, pulling off his tabards and using one to wipe the blood from his hands.  He tossed the other one to Ben, who took it with a grateful nod and began wiping the drying blood from his face.  The red came off; the dust didn’t.  Mace stared and had to force himself to respond to the question Ben had asked.  “I don’t know.  I’ve been here for the past decade, right in the thick of it, and I can’t answer that question.”  He tossed the cloth aside and sent off a quick missive to Master Yoda with his datapad, letting the ancient Master know that he was going to be late.  “Were you identified?”

“I don’t think so,” Ben said after a long moment.  “I had my hood up through the entire encounter, but I may want to shave this beard off.  If it’ll stay gone,” he mused.  “I mean, I haven’t tried to get rid of it yet.  It might refuse to go.”

“How inconvenient,” Mace drawled.  “Where’s your friend?  I notice his conspicuous absence by the fact that you’re not yelling at him.”

Ben grinned.  “Up in the gardens, hunting for breakfast.  Thank you, by the way.  There aren’t very many who know of me who can handle—who don’t seem traumatized by what I’m like now.  I was glad to be able to come to you.” 

Mace smiled.  “You’re welcome, Ben.  Though, you could have gone to Master Yoda.  He’s not bothered by it.”

Ben raised an eyebrow.  “Yes, but Master Yoda would also make fun of me for not being able to find another solution.  I can do that well enough on my own.”

“True enough,” Mace conceded, amused.  “All right.  I’ll be on the lookout for those twenty invitations from the Loyalist Committee.  That’s going to be…fun,” he said, and Ben smirked.  It really was as if the man was becoming a more primal version of himself, Mace realized, thinking of the hesitant way Ben had presented himself before, and the almost careless, amused, steady presence Ben had now. 

Then again, the man was _dead._   Who was he to judge?  Despite the oddness inherent in the situation, Ben Lars still acted and thought like a Jedi, and that was all Mace Windu needed to be concerned with. 

“Go get some rest.  I’ll let our Council of Six know what’s going on,” Mace said, referring to the original six members of the Council Ben had met with first, the only ones who knew of Knight Lars’s true identity.

Ben nodded, rising and drawing his tattered cloak around himself once more.  “I’ll bet you there’s a line of angry maintenance droids trying to deal with my blood trail,” he murmured, smiling.

“Probably,” Mace agreed.  “And Obi-Wan?”

Ben half-turned, looking at Mace curiously.

“Thank you,” Mace said, his voice solemn.  “With your help, we may just save the Republic from itself.”

**Reverberation**

 

He had to shave three times, and shout at Jeimor, before his face would believe him and stop re-growing the beard.  Obi-Wan wiped his face with a towel when he was done, feeling rough threads against smooth skin for the first time in…  He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the steamed surface of the mirror for a moment, distressed, because he couldn’t remember which time was the _last_ time. 

He drew back, using the towel to wipe the surface of the mirror dry.  He’d had to shower, of course, to remove the blood, and managed to find two more shards of glass embedded in his inner left thigh in the process. 

Obi-Wan looked in the mirror, taking in his wide gray eyes.  He remembered his eyes being a funny blue-green, a color that shifted depending on his mood or surroundings.  Despite the lack of beard, he still looked different from the face he used to gaze at every morning.  Oh, the similarities were there, in his nose, his lips, his chin, the arch of his brows.  After that, though…  He peered closer and sighed.  He looked tired, and yet he looked timeless.  And his hair was a mess, hanging in mismatched locks after being sheared off by broken glass. 

Obi-Wan spent a few amusing minutes convincing Jeimor to grow his hair out for him.  If the crow could make his facial hair grow back, certainly he could do something about the hair on Obi-Wan’s head.  After some cajoling and a bribe of fresh, bleeding Nerf meat from the dining hall, Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and tried not to scratch his head as the sensation of speedy new growth made him feel like ants were crawling around on his scalp.

He trimmed it off so that it was all one length, and now it hung down to his shoulders, as if he’d spent a month or more growing it out past the chin length it had stubbornly remained at.  He looked in the mirror; oh, yes.  Even more different than before.  Without thought he lifted his hands and began braiding the lock of hair that hung behind his left ear, his fingers deft and sure from long, long practice.  “Huh,” he said, gazing at his appearance once more.  “There’s a thought.”

By the time a Padawan arrived to deliver the clothes he’d ordered from Stores, he had multiple braids like it spread throughout his hair at random intervals, and had even scrounged up several metal beads and ties to complete the look.  Not Padawan braids, these, but something else, something that he couldn’t define beyond it _feeling_ right.

The Padawan, a girl of about thirteen Standard, grinned up at him.  She was used to making random deliveries for him, considering he tended to destroy clothing at an appalling rate.  “I like the new look, Knight Lars,” Ahsoka Tano said. 

He grinned back at the Togrutan girl.  She reminded him very much of Shaak Ti at that age, though Shaak would never admit to it.  “Thanks, Padawan Tano.”

“Master Qui-Gon should like it also,” she added, turning on her heels to go.

He halted in the midst of palming the door closed and leaned out into the hallway.  “Tano!” he yelled.

“Yes?” she replied, glancing back over her shoulder with a cheeky smile.

“What are you talking about?”

She gave him an innocent look.  “I’m merely saying that Master Jinn will like it.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Yes, but _why_ , Tano?  Why would he care?”  _And what the hell is the Temple rumor mill spewing out now?_ he wondered.

“Sorry, I’m going to be late for class,” she said, and waved.  “Bye, Knight Lars!”

“Tan—never mind,” he grumbled, sighing.  Great.  Just when he’d decided that the best course of action would be to avoid Qui-Gon Jinn, the Temple Padawans had sniffed potential romance. 

-Problems, golden boy?- Jeimor queried, looking far too smug for a damned crow.

“Not a thing, Jeimor,” Obi-Wan replied, putting the crate of new clothing down on the floor next to the door with a harsh yawn.  “Tired” never eased into being for him anymore so much as it just slammed him over the head with all the subtlety of a brick.  He didn’t need to sleep often, but bleeding from one end of Coruscant to the other was enough to tax even Jeimor’s ability to help him recover, and exhausted them both.  “I’m going to bed,” he said, but Jeimor had already tucked his beak into his feathers and was emitting a faint snore.

Sleep lasted until his newly replaced commlink chimed a happy tone that announced an incoming call.  Ben pried his eyes open and launched himself at the bedside table, grabbing the commlink but falling off the bed in the process.  “Fwa,” he managed to say after hitting the switch.  Oh, he was not with it.  What little rest he’d gotten wasn’t enough to replace his or Jeimor’s energy reserves yet.  He could have cheated and tapped into that ethereal energy pool himself, but that tended to leave him twitchy and anxious and giggly and more than a little mad.  It made his neighbors nervous.

“Ben?”

Adrenaline shooting through his system did what rest had not, the sound of Qui-Gon’s voice calling his name like a joyful shot of pure caffeine.  “Yeah,” he said, sounding a bit more coherent than last time.  “Sorry, you just caught me asleep.  What is it?”

“My apologies,” Qui-Gon replied.  “I can call you another time—”

Obi-Wan cut him off.  “Well, I’m awake now, so you might as well tell me.  In fact, not only am I awake, but I’m lying on the floor and I’m pretty sure the sheet is in a knot around my leg.”

Qui-Gon laughed, and it warmed Obi-Wan’s heart to hear it.  He hated to see that forlorn sadness in his former Master’s eyes, hated even worse that his own death seemed to have caused it.  In trying to save the galaxy, he’d damn near broken the being in it that he loved the most.  It wasn’t fucking _fair._

-Will you shut the fuck _up_?- Jeimor told him in a sleepy grumble.  -Some of us are fucking sleeping!-  From the main room Obi-Wan heard the sound of the bird shifting around on his chosen perch.

“I was calling to invite you to dinner, though we seem to be on opposite schedules if you’re already in bed for the evening.  Anakin will be here as well.  I issued the invitation before, but circumstances most certainly intervened in the meantime.  Are you still interested?” Qui-Gon asked, a note of hesitation in his voice.

 _Say no.  Say no, you dumbass,_ Obi-Wan told himself, and then said yes anyway.  “What time?”

“In about half an hour or so, if that’s not too soon.”  There was no mistaking the delight in the older man’s voice. 

“No, that’s fine,” Obi-Wan said, kicking the sheet off of his leg and pushing himself away from the bed, feeling carpet scrape against his bare back and relishing the sensation.  He was such a damned hedonist now, wanting to touch and feel everything, cherishing it all, and thanks to the psychometry the stuff he touched spoke back.  Annoying.  “Shall I bring anything?”

“If I were cooking, I’d tell you to bring the entire meal with you, but Anakin convinced me to see sense.  He’s off retrieving the meal as we speak.  Will Jeimor be accompanying you?” Qui-Gon asked.

“I think Jeimor might bite me if I asked,” Obi-Wan said, grinning.  “We both had a rough night and didn’t get in until late this morning.  I have no idea what time it was when we finally went to bed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  I’ll see you in half an hour, then?”

“Absolutely,” Obi-Wan replied, turned off the comm, and then considered flinging it across the room.  “You,” he told himself out loud, “are an idiot.”

 

_Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough._

_-Emily Dickinson_

 

He arrived two minutes before the half-hour was up, and paced up and down the hall outside Qui-Gon Jinn and Anakin Skywalker’s quarters.  Now that he was this close, he was afraid to go in, afraid that his psychometry was going to go ballistic.  He’d lived in those same quarters for years.  Everything he touched was likely to have some imprint in it, a memory that could strike him unawares.

Or perhaps Qui-Gon had everything bulldozed and repainted after he’d died.  He grimaced, for the thought was both reassuring and absolutely horrible.

“Are you coming in, or what?”

He turned around and found Anakin leaning out of the open door, giving him a curious stare.  “I—Yes.”  Obi-Wan paused.  “Maybe.”

Anakin grinned and slipped out into the hall, palming the door closed behind him.  “Look.  Do you like my Master, Ben?”

 _Eurgh._   Obi-Wan had forgotten how fast news and rumor could travel through the Temple.  Still, in for a credit…  “Yes.”

Anakin crossed his arms and stared down at him.  “Are you going to break his heart?”

Obi-Wan swallowed hard.  “I really hope not,” he whispered.

“Good enough for me,” Anakin said, and grinned.  “Come on in.  I hope you like eating with sticks.”

His eyes widened, his mouth watering as the implication struck him.  “He had you fetch _jept’p’tan_?”  Obi-Wan needed to eat about as much as he needed to sleep, but he sure was hell wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to eat _good_ food. 

“Oh, you know it?” Anakin asked, opening the door again and leading him inside.  “I think it’s weird stuff, myself, but I’m an uneducated kid from a backwater.”

“I think it’s just an acquired taste,” Obi-Wan said, smiling, and the moment his feet crossed the threshold he was struck by memory, the impression so strong that he didn’t even need to reach out with his hands.

“ _Welcome home, Padawan.”_

_“Master, you can’t welcome me to someplace you’ve only just arrived at yourself.”_

_“Picky, picky,” Qui-Gon said, smiling as the shrugged out of his robe.  “You don’t have to be so literal all the time, Padawan.”_

“Thirsty?” Anakin asked, digging around in the cold store.  “Our host is in the ‘fresher.  Incident in the creche this afternoon,” Anakin explained with a smile, when Obi-Wan gave him a curious look.  “They were using green paint that seems to like human hair.  He’s been trying to get the color out all day.  Before I went for the food he still had green tips.”

_“How’s your homework coming, Obi-Wan?”_

_He looked down at his datapad and grinned.  “Well, I’ve just crashed us into a sun.”_

_“Whyever for?” Qui-Gon asked, lowering his own datapad to look at him._

_“Forgot to compensate for the Maw,” he said, erasing his calculations and starting over again.  It was a good thing he liked math, or the frustration of this particular equation would have made his head explode long ago._

_Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow at him.  “You’re not piloting the next time we go out, Padawan.”_

“Ah, there you are.”  He turned around after Anakin handed him a glass of something that bubbled too much but had an excellent flavor.  Qui-Gon had emerged from the ‘fresher, the ends of his hair still damp but no longer green.  “Sorry about that, I…” Qui-Gon trailed off, staring at Obi-Wan.  “Force, look at you.”

_“Force.   I just—I don’t have it in me, Obi-Wan.  I can’t face any more pyres this year,” Qui-Gon said, his voice muffled by his sleeves.  He was seated at the kitchen table, bent over with his head pillowed on his arms, hiding his face.  “Too many of them have been friends.”_

_He touched his Master’s shoulder, feeling useless and childlike and stupid.  Was it his imagination, or was there more silver in his Master’s hair, now?  “I’ll go for both of us, then,” he said, swallowing back his own nerves and grief.  “That’s what we’re supposed to do, right?  Act for each other as well as with each other?”_

_In answer Qui-Gon reached out, taking Obi-Wan’s hand in a fierce, bone-grinding grip.  He decided to take that as a yes._

“Uh…”  Had it been a mistake to shave?  Did he look ridiculous?  “What?” Obi-Wan asked, feeling his cheeks heat under the intensity of his Qui-Gon’s stare. 

“I…you just—  You look incredible,” Qui-Gon said, shaking his head, as if realizing that he’d stared too long. 

Obi-Wan managed to keep his blush from growing, but it took effort.  “Thank you,” he said, proud when his voice didn’t wobble.  He hadn’t changed his appearance to impress anyone, but Qui-Gon’s reaction was gratifying.  Tano had been correct, the little Togrutan imp.

Anakin laughed.  “Master, that’s the first time in years I’ve seen you lose your way with words.  This should be a fun evening.”

Obi-Wan turned his head to glare at Anakin, who blithely ignored him.

They let him wander around the main room, both of them retreating to the kitchen to transfer purchased food onto plates.  Obi-Wan was grateful for the mild buzz the alcohol he’d been given was creating, because being in this place was both harder and easier than he’d ever imagined.  The room hadn’t been bulldozed, but nor was it exactly the same.  Mechanical objects that felt like Anakin were stored here and there on the shelves.  Other things were new; bits and pieces that spoke of both Qui-Gon and Anakin and their time together.  What made Obi-Wan both glad and heartsick was seeing that Qui-Gon had removed nothing from the main room that they had acquired together.  Those items were higher on the walls than the rest, as if being granted a place of honor, and were scattered among other things Qui-Gon regarded just as highly—items once gifted to him by the friends he’d lost.

Obi-Wan glanced in the open doorway of the second bedroom for a moment.  It felt like he’d never existed in it, so completely had Anakin’s presence overrode his own.  He didn’t feel grief for that, because Anakin deserved his own space.  His room had been just a room, a place to sleep, nothing he’d been afraid to lose.  It was the rest of his and Qui-Gon’s quarters that had been more like his home.  What struck Obi-Wan then, as he stood there contemplating Anakin’s unique kind of clutter, was not any psychic impression, but memory.

_He was tucking a blanket around Anakin, having given the boy his bedroom.  He was planning to spend a restless, irritated night on the couch.  Every time he tried to spend a night like that in his own room, he’d kick the wall, and that would wake up Qui-Gon, and then there might be another row.  He didn’t want another fight, not now.  Not when things were already so close…_

_“You don’t seem to like me very much,” Anakin said, and looked awed when Obi-Wan used the Force to turn down the lamp to a soft, steady glow, the better to reassure the uprooted little boy.  He looked nervous enough in his new environment.  Light might help._

_“It’s not that I don’t like you, Anakin,” he said, settling back on his knees next to the bed.  “It’s—coming into the Order this way, it’s going to be so much harder for you to learn the path of the Jedi.”  He had no doubt that training was what Anakin would receive.  The Council might have swatted down his Master’s voice, but that wouldn’t last long.  It never did.  Qui-Gon Jinn was a headstrong bastard.  “I know you wish to do it, and you have great confidence in your abilities, but I’d hate to see you progress so far only to fail.”  Or fall, he added silently._

_Anakin frowned at him.  “You have a very strange way of trying to be nice to people, sir.”_

_“So I’ve been told,” he said, and smiled._

And on the heels of that memory came another, one that would not be banished.

_“Good morning, Obi-Wan.”_

_He didn’t bother opening his eyes, not quite done with his meditation.  What he’d felt at odd moments before touching Naboo’s surface was now a full-blown vision, and its implications frightened him.  “Good morning,” he said after a moment, pulling himself from what he could see with difficulty._

_He didn’t want Qui-Gon to die in his arms.  Things were dire enough between them as it was.  He didn’t think he could handle that final farewell.  Not now._

_Not ever._

_“Where’s Anakin?” Qui-Gon asked._

_“Sleeping in my bed.”  He opened his eyes, noticing that the darkness beyond the window was just touched by a hint of gray.  Pre-dawn.  Still early yet, then.  “You should go back to bed, Master.  There is no need for any of us to be up this early, and you have sacrificed enough sleep on this mission as it is.”_

_When Qui-Gon didn’t move, Obi-Wan turned his head to look at him.  His Master (Former! his mind insisted) stood there, dressed only in a pair of loose, well-worn, dark blue sleep pants.  His hair was unbound, and thick skeins of it were falling around his face, while individual strands had tangled themselves in his beard.  Gods, but how Obi-Wan wanted to pull those strands free, to straighten that sleep-tossed hair, and his heart clenched.  There was so little time left, and he would never have what he wanted with this man._

_“What?” he asked, when Qui-Gon only looked at him without speaking._

_“I daresay the same is true of you as well, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan had to repress a flare of anger; the title was no longer his, not after yesterday’s Council session.  “You should be resting as well.”_

_“I made the attempt, but it seems as if the couch and I are in the midst of a disagreement.  We’re currently not speaking to each other,” he said, keeping his voice light._

_The ghost of a smile softened Qui-Gon’s lips.  “Come to bed, Obi-Wan,” he said, holding out his hand in invitation.  “It would not do for you to yawn before either the Council or the Queen.  I will rest better knowing that you’re not exhausting yourself.”_

_He hesitated for a moment before deciding that yes, he wanted that closeness.  Just one more time, Force,_ please _.  He got to his feet, following Qui-Gon into his bedroom, a place he had only ventured in the past few years to seek out clothing when he packed for their travels.  “Wait,” he said, when Qui-Gon would have gestured for him to climb across to the far side of the bed._

_“What?” Qui-Gon asked, and then held very still while Obi-Wan pulled silvering threads of long hair loose from Qui-Gon’s beard, pushing them back behind Qui-Gon’s ears to join the other unruly strands._

_“Better,” he announced, and turned to scurry across the bed before he could look up into Qui-Gon’s eyes and see something he did not want to know about._

He was glad when they called him over for dinner, grateful to focus on the living instead of his own ghost.  They ate casually, sitting on the floor around the low, oval ebony table that had resided in front of the couch for longer than Obi-Wan had been alive.   

His first bite of _jept’p’tan_ , a sliver of a green, crisp vegetable dripping with sauce, was enough to make him moan in bliss.  Whoever Qui-Gon had chosen to order from knew exactly what they were doing. 

“Did I choose well, Ben?” Qui-Gon asked, a teasing glint in his eye.

“Mmph,” Obi-Wan replied, trying not to drool with anticipation of the next bite.  “What made you decide on this?”

“It’s an old favorite, one I don’t get to indulge in often,” Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan tried desperately to pretend that he didn’t already know that.  “It felt like the right choice.”

“I think there are people in porn who don’t look as happy as you do right now,” Anakin told him with a grin, and he had nowhere to duck when both Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon reached out to swat him. 

They kept up a mundane conversation about Temple goings-on, while Obi-Wan savored every single flavor, using the pair of sticks to grab each piece.  Anakin, meanwhile, did not seem to have mastered the skill.  Obi-Wan managed to hold his tongue for five minutes of watching Anakin eat before he couldn’t stand it any longer.  “If I see you stab your food one more time instead of picking it up in the correct manner, I’m going to take those sticks and shove them up your nostrils,” he said cheerfully.

Anakin paused in what he was doing to give Obi-Wan a worried look.  “Do you always threaten people with bodily harm over a bit of food?”

“Not always, but you’re supposed to be my younger brother now, and I’m told that’s how siblings operate,” Obi-Wan replied, grinning.

“I don’t think I want an older sibling anymore,” Anakin said, scooting away from Obi-Wan while Qui-Gon chuckled.

“Too bad.  No sibling of mine is going to eat _jept’p’tan_ by stabbing.  Just—Look.  No, put one of the sticks down,” Obi-Wan said, narrowing his eyes when Anakin stabbed it into a chunk of meat so the stick would remain upright.  “Now hold the damned thing like this,” he said, demonstrating with his thumb and middle finger.  “See how it’s not moving?  This is your stable platform.”

Anakin mimicked his grip, his tongue sticking out between his teeth as he fought with his fingers for control.  “Okay.  Now what the heck do I do?”

Getting Anakin to hold the second stick properly was an exercise in patience and swearing, while Qui-Gon watched, trying very hard not to laugh at his Padawan’s cultural ineptitude.  “What do I need to do, make it out of droid parts?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Well, at least then I’d understand it,” Anakin muttered, frowning at the sticks as he worked on the pincer grip. 

Obi-Wan smiled and took Anakin’s plate away, replacing it with a single grain of brown rice.  “Practice,” he ordered, and Anakin looked at him in horror before giving his Master a beseeching look.

“You heard Ben,” Qui-Gon said, using the sticks in a deft, quick motion to capture an entire lump of brown rice from his plate.  “Practice.”

Anakin did so, grumbling under his breath as he chased the single grain of rice back and forth across the table.  “Man, I pity any Padawan who happens to wind up with _you_ for a Master.”

He managed not to flinch, but it was a close call.  “We’ll see,” he chose to say, ignoring the stabbing pain in his heart.  Damn, but he’d never even thought of that.  He never would be a Master, never guide a Padawan along the path to Knighthood.  He pushed those thoughts aside; when Anakin at last chased down the elusive rice, which was now a mangled bit of starch, Obi-Wan gave him his food back before both he and Qui-Gon applauded Anakin. 

The rest of the meal was as wonderful as the start, made even more memorable by the company Obi-Wan found himself in.  Anakin was just as friendly and outgoing as he had been as a child.  The years had done nothing to diminish his enthusiasm for flight or tinkering.

Qui-Gon seemed to lose some of the lines of stress and age around his eyes as the evening progressed, and was smiling more often than not.  Before Obi-Wan realized it, they were sitting side by side, their shoulders brushing, their knees just touching.  He felt fire burn in his cheeks and a rush of heat to his groin, and Obi-Wan knew that they _both_ were interested in each other, for the desire he felt in that moment was not just his own.  He swallowed and told his body sternly that it was not to react, no matter how much it wanted to.   

It was frustrating to realize that he couldn’t stuff himself to the proverbial gills, but then he cocked his head, listening to a grumbled request.  “I think Jeimor wants my leftovers.  He’s swearing at me and claims he can smell the food from my room.”

“Hence I am reassured that nothing we fail to eat will go to waste,” Qui-Gon said, looking pleased.

Obi-Wan helped them clean up, and was happy to be baffled by the new layout of the kitchen, for it meant he didn’t have to fake unfamiliarity.  Then came a repetitive tap on the glass door that led out onto Qui-Gon’s balcony, and his pleasant evening came to an abrupt end.

He slid open the door, holding out his wrist for Jeimor, who settled onto it with an agitated caw.  “What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing that Anakin and Qui-Gon had both stopped in the midst of what they were doing to watch.

-Trouble- Jeimor said, gripping Obi-Wan’s wrist tightly with his talons.  -Listen.-

Obi-Wan raised his head, closed his eyes, and touched the Force.  There:  an echoing sense of danger.  And underneath that, the energy from that primal pool, nudging him in the direction he needed to go:  _now now now hurry hurry hurry maintain Balance now_

“Damn,” he muttered, opening his eyes and bowing at Qui-Gon to show his regret.  “I’m sorry, but I have to go, right now.”

“Trouble?” Qui-Gon asked, dropping the small towel he held and striding forward.  Anakin was right behind him, abandoning his own effort at cleanup.  “We can go with you.”

He bit his lip as he looked at them.  Not a good idea.  Terrible idea.  He tended to be…different, when he got nudges like these.  As much as Obi-Wan wanted to spend time with them, he wasn’t sure he was ready to share that new aspect of his personality yet.  

“That’s kind of you, but this isn’t going to be anything dire.  I can handle it on my own.  Besides,” he added with a reassuring smile, after noticing the familiar, stubborn glint in Qui-Gon’s eyes.  “As you pointed out, we are on different schedules.  The two of you are off to bed, and I just had breakfast.”

Qui-Gon sighed, and Obi-Wan knew he’d won, even if Qui-Gon didn’t like it.  “Very well, Ben.  You’ll be careful, I hope?”

“Sure,” he said, in perfect confidence.  Of course, his definition of careful and Qui-Gon’s most certainly did not match any longer, but there was no need to tell _him_ that.  “I’ll probably return around dawn, in a foul mood and in need of another shirt.”

He pushed the glass door open further and stepped out onto the balcony, taking a deep, joyful breath as the wind began toying with his hair.  He was coming to adore the night, for this was his time, it was crow’s time, when ebony shielded all of their eyes from the light of the sun.

Jeimor cawed once and launched himself from Obi-Wan’s wrist, spreading his wings and catching an updraft.  Obi-Wan hopped up on the thin rail, feeling his clothing flutter, and realized his cloak was still in his quarters.  Damn.  Hopefully he wouldn’t run into those twits from the Security squad again. 

“You’re going that way?” Anakin asked, incredulous.

Obi-Wan glanced down to see that Qui-Gon and Anakin had followed him outside.  “Yes,” he said, grinning.  “Jeimor hates transports, anyway.  Qui-Gon…” he hesitated, unsure of what to say.  “Thank you for dinner.  It was as wonderful as the company.”

“Breakfast,” Qui-Gon corrected, amused.

“Whatever,” Obi-Wan replied, smiling.

Qui-Gon crooked one finger at him, a clear signal that Obi-Wan obeyed out of still-ingrained habits.  “What is it?” he asked, squatting down on the railing so that he and Qui-Gon were at eye level. 

Of course, then he almost fell _off_ the railing when his former Master leaned in close and kissed him.  Warm lips, warm breath, tickling hairs from Qui-Gon’s beard, motion and sensation—he catalogued it all, even as he grabbed hold of Qui-Gon’s shoulder to keep from tumbling over backwards. 

Qui-Gon stepped back, a smile on his face and a teasing glimmer in his blue eyes.  “Just that,” he said.  “Be safe, Ben.”

“Uh-huh,” Obi-Wan replied, feeling like he’d just lost most of the brain cells in his head.  “Sure.  Whatever you just said.” 

Anakin was laughing at him.  “I told you it would be a fun evening.”

-Hurry up, wingless wonder- Jeimor yelled in his head.        

“Right.  Fun.”  Obi-Wan shook his head and grinned.  “Yeah, you were right,” he said, and jumped off of the railing just to give his fried brains the chance to recover.

 

 _"Hope" is the thing with feathers_  
_That perches in the soul_  
_And sings the tune without the words_  
_And never stops at all._

_–Emily Dickinson_

 

Anakin and Qui-Gon rushed to the railing when Ben jumped, but the Knight was already landing on the roof of the South tower, using his momentum to fling himself even farther out, away from the Temple proper.  If he managed to keep up that momentum, he’d be on the edge of the Temple District in no time.

“Huh,” Anakin mused.  “That looks like a nifty way to travel.”

“No, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said sternly, repressing a smile.  It did look like fun, if he was at least a decade or two younger. 

Then again, he hadn’t felt this young in at least a decade, and it was because of the copper-haired Jedi they were watching fall through the air in the dark, a crow following behind him.  He frowned; for a moment there was something tickling his memory, like a story he’d forgotten.  Whatever it was slipped away the harder he tried to focus on it, and he gave up, deciding to meditate on the memory fragment later. 

“You think he’ll be all right?” Anakin asked, glancing over at Qui-Gon.  His Padawan was frowning, his eyes filled with worry.

Qui-Gon looked back out at the Coruscant night, touched by a thread of unease as he remembered his nightmare.  “I hope so, Padawan,” he said, both of them watching until Ben was out of sight.

Anakin surprised him by snickering.  “You are so whipped, Master.”

Qui-Gon elbowed the young man in the ribs.  “Pot, kettle, black, Padawan.”

 

 _The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish your feelings - words shrink things that seem timeless when they are in your head to no more than living size when they are brought out._  
_-Stephen King_

 

Bail Organa parked his speeder, climbed out, and stretched his arms over his head.  It had been a long, trying, tiring day, and escaping his aides had been a difficult task.  However, to make it back to his apartment and find himself alone would be worth the verbal drumming he would receive from Brax in the morning. 

He walked inside and stopped short.

There was a great black crow perched on his desk, staring at him with beady amber eyes.  It was the same bird that had been sitting on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and to be honest, the thing scared the hell out of him.  No crow was that large, that intelligent, and its otherworldliness bothered him far more than his friend’s apparent resurrection.

“Er…hello,” he said cautiously, when the crow showed no sign of moving.

The crow opened his beak, cawed at him in a subdued tone, and then lowered his head, tapping at something on Bail’s desk.  Curious, Bail stepped closer, spying a data disk that he didn’t recognize. 

“Is that for me?”

The crow chuckled and then launched himself into the air, flying so close that the tips of his wings brushed Bail’s shoulder. 

“I guess it is,” Bail muttered, brushing at his shoulder.  He picked up the disk, studied it, and then inserted it into a data reader instead of the main terminal on his desk.

A file listing popped up on the directory screen, temporarily superseded by a flashing message.  _Destroy the disk when you’re done.  Backup available with LGT.  Stay safe.  OWK._

Bail smiled.  “Naughty man,” he said, remembering all of the times that Master Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan had referenced the LGT in his hearing, only to be mortified later once he realized they had been speaking of Master Yoda.  Little Green Troll, indeed. 

He closed the flashing message, only to find it had been replaced by another.  _Sorry, late addition.  Assassin tried to off PA last night.  She’s fine.  Aurra Sing still a pain in the ass.  Need new shirt._

“Damn.”  He was glad to know that Padmé was all right, but it would have been nice if Obi-Wan had been able to speak of Sing in the past tense.  Senator Amidala seemed to attract bounty hunters the way Palpatine attracted sycophants.

He snagged a bottle of brandy and a glass before settling onto his sofa with the datapad, opening a file.  It was time to get a closer look at the evidence his long-lost friend had put together.  Perhaps, between his little act of rebellion, Obi-Wan, and the LGT, they might have a chance at saving the Republic.

 

_Disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man's original virtue. It is through disobedience that progress has been made,_

_through disobedience and through rebellion._

_–Oscar Wilde_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title image provided by Rikarahl; chapter art provided by Cajolerisms.


	3. Book Three - Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some memories bring pain as well as joy.

_Si vis pacem, para bellum._

_(If you want peace, prepare for war.)_

_-Vegetius_

 

 

****   


 

The Council summons was unexpected, which meant they were back on the mission roster once more.  Anakin grumbled about them seeming to be the team most in demand for dealing with the Confederacy’s border disputes, but there was no real ire in his words.  Qui-Gon was normally serene about such matters, but this morning he found himself ill at ease.  Ben had yet to return to his quarters after last night’s unusual departure, and wasn’t answering his comm.  The Force was quiescent, refusing to admit whether Ben still existed or not.  That worry aside, he’d also wanted the chance to spend more time in the younger man’s company, to pursue that potential they both felt. 

They entered the Council chamber and came to a halt in the center of the room, Anakin to Qui-Gon’s right and behind him two steps, and they both bowed to the assembled Council.  There were only six Councilors in attendance—Mace Windu, Master Yoda, Ki-Adi Mundi, Adi Gallia, Shaak Ti, and Saesee Tiin.  Under normal circumstances that would not bother him, but today he knew all but two members of the Council were on Coruscant.  He looked at Yoda, taking in his set, lowered ears, and at Mace, who was even more grim than usual.  “What’s happened?”

“We’ll brief you in a moment, Master Jinn,” Ki-Adi Mundi said, resting his hand on the arm of his chair.  “There is another Jedi joining us, but he is running late.”

“Give the man a break, Ki,” Adi said, smiling.  “I think he was out all night again.”

After a moment he heard the sound of pounding feet in the antechamber, and a moment later Ben Lars slid into the Council chamber to join them.  “Sorry!” he said, shoving his arms into the cloak he’d been carrying instead of wearing.  “I only just got in, and saw the message on the terminal in my room.”

“Don’t you own a comm?” Shaak Ti said, grinning at him.  “And what did you do, fall in a shredder?” she asked.  Qui-Gon took in the rough state of Ben’s clothing and had to agree with her.  There were several charred spots on his clothes, and his tunics looked frayed, at best.  Despite that, however, he was still in excellent form.  The long hair, the braids, the clean-shaven skin—Qui-Gon was just as fascinated by the man’s appearance in the light of day as he had been last night, when he’d been shocked speechless.  Forget striking.  The man looked damn-near _edible_.

Ben smiled back at the Councilor and removed his comm from his belt, holding it up.  It was twisted and blackened, a lump of useless plastic and metal.  “No, the shredder was yesterday.  Today it was Aurra Sing, trying to assassinate one of our allies.”

“Sith,” Mace spat, shaking his head.  Qui-Gon found himself echoing the sentiment.  “That’s the last thing we need.  Did she succeed?”

Ben narrowed his eyes, like the question was beneath him.  “Of course not.  She did escape, but it will be at least a few months before we hear from her again.  She’s missing an arm.”

“I told you we should have come with you,” Anakin said under his breath as Ben walked over to join them, standing to Qui-Gon’s left and one step behind him, in deference to Qui-Gon’s higher rank. 

“If you’re very good and your Master says you can come out and play, next time you can join me,” Ben murmured back, a hint of a smirk lurking on his face.  Qui-Gon was hard-pressed not to smile at the by-play; it was like the two had been born siblings, so quickly had they fallen into the role of brothers. 

“Boys,” Adi said, her eyes dancing.  “Behave.”

“A companion you are missing,” Yoda observed, gazing at Ben.

“He’s delivering messages for me, Master,” Ben said, bowing his head in response.  “And he has informed me with much foul language that he is not a messenger bird.”

Mace gave Ben a brief smile before sobering once more.  “Qui-Gon, Padawan Skywalker, you’re here because of your prior involvement and experience with the Sith.  We,” he gestured with his hand at the other Masters, “are the Council of Six, something Shaak Ti dubbed us in a less stressful moment.  Due to expediency, opportunity, and the need for extreme secrecy, the other half of the Council does not know anything that I am about to tell you.  Do I make myself clear?”

Qui-Gon nodded.  “Perfectly,” he said, even as he wondered about the exclusion of the rest of the Council.

“Absolutely,” Anakin chimed in.

“Knight Lars already knew of our existence, as he created one of those opportunities,” Ki-Adi Mundi continued.  “He has been tasked to find the Sith Lord, not by us, but by the Force itself.”

Qui-Gon looked over at the younger Knight, who didn’t bat an eyelash at the Councilor’s words.  _Gods_ , he thought.  No wonder Ben had submerged himself in ‘plast and paperwork for so long, with that kind of impetus driving him.  Despite the impossible-sounding nature of the task, though, Ben had made more headway in a month than the entire Order had managed in a decade. 

Then Shaak Ti began speaking, telling them of what Ben had uncovered, and it was like the galaxy shifted under his feet.  “This is insane,” he said at last, when Shaak Ti finished by saying that while they could indeed locate the Office of Republic Security’s headquarters, no one could find out who was in charge of the new bureau.  “Someone has to be giving them their orders.”

“Indeed,” said Mace.  “And after conferring together, we believe that it’s the Sith.  How, we have no idea, but he’s using the mandate slipped into one of the last trade agreements to run the Office like it’s his own private army.”

“The timing on that raid was too good for it not to have been the work of a Force-sensitive,” Ben added.  “A Jedi Master would have the power to make the clone soldiers forget, but no Jedi I know of would follow through with _this_.”

“Agreed,” Adi said.  “Which is why we must be cautious, but also why we must move quickly.”

“We’ve uncovered more instances of their use, including on-site executions.  They’re creating an aura of fear in the midlevels that is unacceptable.  Worse, we seem to have no legal ability to stop them,” Saesee Tiin growled. 

“Dooku is dead, but the Sith appears to have had other allies, one of whom we believe was taught by Dooku,” Mace said, leaning forward in his chair.  “He trained an apprentice of his own, despite the Sith folklore of the Rule of Two.  Her name, as far as we can determine, is Ventress, and she has been seen carrying Knight Komari Vosa’s twin lightsabers.”

“And what about Knight Vosa?” Qui-Gon asked, and his heart sank when he saw Yoda’s ears lower even further.

“Dead,” Shaak Ti said, her voice full of regret.  “Quinlan Vos found her body, abandoned and decaying on one of the moons of Iego.  Knight Vos’s psychometry tells us that she was killed by her own Master.”

“Damn,” Qui-Gon said, resisting the urge to clench his hands into fists.  He felt a moment of anger and outrage at his former Master and then let it go, for it was far too late for such things now.  Despite Komari’s rough start, she had turned into an excellent Jedi Knight, a woman he’d been proud to consider his sister Padawan.  “She will be missed.”

“The three of you must go to Bestine IV, tonight,” Mace instructed.  “We know that Ventress is there right now; if you’re lucky, she’ll still be there in five days.  If not, you may be able to trail her from that location.  We cannot, must not, allow the Sith Lord to retain any potential allies among the Confederates, even if the Sith is just using them as a means to an end.  The weaker we can keep his power base, the longer we can hold out against him.  Unfortunately, you’re also working under a time limit.”

“Time limit?” Qui-Gon asked, feeling Anakin’s confusion through their bond.  “Why?” 

Saesee Tiin grimaced.  “The Loyalist Committee is a pain in the backside, but it seems we have allies hiding within its ranks.  Don’t ask for their identities, for only Knight Lars knows, and he’s not telling.  Under the guise of unity, twenty Jedi have been invited to attend the Chancellor’s next gala.  The three of you are on that short list.”

“Oh.  Great,” Anakin muttered under his breath.

Qui-Gon would never have admitted it, but he shared his Padawan’s sentiment.  He’d had enough of political elbow-rubbing to last a lifetime, and that had been before Palpatine took office.  “How will that help us?”

He saw Ben hold up his hands, wiggling his fingers.  “Advanced psychometry and a nudge from the Force, both useful for pointing me in the right direction among people I normally have no access to,” Ben explained.  “I believe, based on the evidence trail and the methods used, that the Sith Lord is a Senator of the Republic.”

“That’s a frightening implication,” Qui-Gon said, chilled by the thought.  “Are you certain?”

“Well, if I manage to sort through over six thousand individuals and find no trace of the Sith, we’ll be back to square one, so I rather hope I’m right,” Ben said, giving Qui-Gon a bitter smile.

“It would, however, explain how the mandate to create the Security Force could be slipped into a trade bill,” Adi said.  “But I have to admit, I’m not looking forward to unmasking a public figure as a Lord of the Sith.  Our political situation has become tenuous in the past few months, and it may be hard to convince the rest of the Republic of the danger.”

“Nevertheless, necessary, it will be,” Yoda said, glaring around at them all.  “When all pieces of the puzzle are found, ready, we will be.  Defeat the Sith, we _must_.”

**Misdirection**

 

The journey to Bestine was tolerable, but only just.  The trip would have been more comfortable for all of them if the ship provided to them hadn’t been so blasted _tiny_.

“If I didn’t think he’d adopt it, I’d put a frog in Master Yoda’s bed,” Ben muttered, after the third time he and Anakin managed to bump hands while piloting the tiny craft.  The pilot’s chair and co-pilot’s chair were nearly stacked on top of each other in the very cramped cockpit.  Qui-Gon didn’t even bother trying to squeeze his bulk into the limited amount of available space remaining, and wedged himself in the cockpit doorway instead.  “And can you think about something else besides sex?” Ben continued.  “That’s distracting as hell.”

Anakin grinned at him.  “Look, just because you’re not getting any…”

“Okay, see, no, that is not remotely all right,” Ben interrupted, glaring at Anakin.  “We may be step-brothers through some weird quirk of fate, but there are some things that are just too damned intimate!”  He paused, quirking an eyebrow.  “Besides, she’s a woman.  Fantasize about a man for a bit, will you?”

“Ew!” Anakin replied, looking offended.  “I don’t like guys!”

“And now you know how I feel,” Ben countered, upon which Qui-Gon had to retreat to the rear of the ship, laughing and delighted by the horrified look on his Padawan’s face.

His courtship with Ben was proceeding at a snail’s pace, but Qui-Gon didn’t mind.  He’d been alone for most of his life, and he could afford to enjoy the time they spent talking quietly, speaking about Ben’s research, Qui-Gon’s teaching of Anakin, Ben’s nightly runs with Jeimor, Qui-Gon’s tendency to collect strays—almost any topic was up for discussion.

Except one.

“Who was your Master, Ben?” he asked on the fourth day, when they were two hours out from Bestine IV.  Anakin was in the cockpit, tweaking the navicomp again and trying to cut another twenty minutes off their arrival time in hopes of catching Ventress on the planet. 

Ben looked up at him, putting down the tool he’d been using to adjust the grip on his lightsaber.  It was odd to see a hilt with an all-black casing, but considering the Knight’s nocturnal activities, it was a good idea.  The blade, in direct contrast, was almost pure white, with a faint hint of violet at the emitter.  Qui-Gon thought it was an excellent match for the Knight. 

“I…don’t like to talk about it,” Ben said at last, and Qui-Gon would have to have been deaf not to notice the hesitation in the man’s voice.

Qui-Gon frowned.  “I’ve thought so before, but I’ll say it to you now—whoever your Master was did you a grave disservice by not making sure you were Knighted.”

Ben ducked his head.  “I assure you, Qui-Gon Jinn, that my Master was absolutely not at fault for any lapse of mine,” he said quietly, and then made it clear that he would discuss the matter no further.  Qui-Gon let the subject drop, but resolved to look up Ben’s file when they returned to the Temple.  There had to be an explanation, but it was clear that Ben Lars was not going to provide it.  

In fact, Ben seemed disinclined to speak to him at all after that, studiously concentrating on his lightsaber.  Qui-Gon spent the last of the flight comforting Jeimor, who was grumbling nonstop and clacking his beak to let everyone know that he absolutely loathed space flight.  “You get used to it,” Qui-Gon said, stroking the crow’s black feathers and soothing the bird’s misery with a touch of the Force.

Jeimor looked up at him, pinning him with an amber-eyed glare that clearly said that the crow didn’t believe him one bit.  Qui-Gon smiled in response.  “It’s true,” he said, scratching the bird’s neck where beak met flesh, eliciting a long, pleased sigh from the crow.  “How do you think species such as yours have spread all over the galaxy?”

The crow grumbled again before trundling up Qui-Gon’s arm, settling onto Qui-Gon’s shoulder, and burying his head in Qui-Gon’s hair with a disgruntled _hmph._   “You and your companion are certainly well-matched,” Qui-Gon told him, amused by their matching attitudes.

Jeimor sighed again, as if in agreement. 

 

_Every man is guilty of all he did not do._

_-Voltaire_

 

Bestine IV was an aquatic world, filled with coral reefs and jutting, rocky islands.  Despite its temperate climate, settlements tended not to do so well on the planet.  Maintaining an active civilization on its surface was so difficult that an ancient colony had once ditched the ocean waves for the desert sands of Tatooine. 

-I keep telling you- Jeimor said, tilting his head at the viewscreen as Anakin and Obi-Wan worked to bring them in for a landing.  He shifted his weight on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, pleased that they were going to be planet-bound again at last.   -You humans are fucking weird.-

 _Thanks_ , he said, flinching when Anakin’s hand brushed his once more.  Jokes aside, there was a tangle of harsh emotion lurking in the core of Anakin’s consciousness.  Obi-Wan hoped Qui-Gon had noticed.  If that mess was left to fester much longer, there were going to be problems.  “I think we’re in luck,” he said out loud, bringing up the results of his scan on the viewscreen while Anakin swore at the prevailing winds buffeting the tiny craft.  “There’s a cluster of ships on this island, here,” he said, enlarging the island in question, along with its coordinates.  “No identifying pings through the comm.”

“Could be smugglers,” Anakin offered, glancing back and forth at the readouts.

“I doubt that,” Qui-Gon murmured from the cockpit doorway.  “Bestine is Confederacy-aligned, and the Confederates are harder on the smugglers than the Republic ever considered being.”

“What’s our plan then, Master?” Anakin asked, changing their course to a direct heading for the island.  “Shall we just land and ask them to surrender?”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea, Padawan,” Qui-Gon answered, sounding amused.   

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to sigh.  So many times they had discussed their plans in much the same way.  He missed it, missed being called Padawan by Qui-Gon more than he’d ever thought possible.  It was a nice surprise to realize that he didn’t feel envious of Anakin claiming that title, not anymore.  The boy had more than earned it.

Funny.  After all of this time, it was strange to discover that he and Qui-Gon had _both_ been right about Anakin Skywalker.  Yes, the boy could be dangerous—hell, Obi-Wan himself was dangerous in a way he’d never thought possible—but Qui-Gon had taken that potential and molded it into something exemplary.

Jeimor tugged on his ear.  -Pay attention.-

“We’ll land in the ocean, provided this damned thing doesn’t sink like a brick the minute we do so,” Qui-Gon was saying.  “There’s a series of rocks jutting up off the coast that might help disguise our landing.  Then we can swim to the main island.”

Anakin looked less than enthused.  “Do we have to?”

“Not fond of water?” Obi-Wan asked, glancing at him.

“Oh, water’s fine, Ben,” Anakin said, taking them as close to the ocean’s surface as he could in an attempt to disguise their approach.  “It’s just…oceans.  I don’t like them.  I always feel like they’re trying to drown me on purpose.”

“Don’t worry, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, smiling, keeping an eye on the scanners.  He didn’t think their presence would go unnoticed, but they might have the chance to ditch the ship before Ventress’s people could come searching for them.  “I’ll make sure you don’t drown.”

“Promise?” Anakin asked.  Obi-Wan glanced back at him, and while Anakin was smiling, there was something else in his expression, something that didn’t match the teasing nature of the conversation.  His eyes, normally so bright, seemed to be filled with longing, hope…and maybe, beneath that, fear.

Obi-Wan held his gaze and thought that perhaps Anakin knew full well that Obi-Wan had seen more than either of them was letting on.  “Absolutely,” he said, and meant it.  He liked Anakin, and he wanted to see the boy have the chance that the Council had once wanted to deny him.  Besides, Anakin had married Padmé Amidala, and _someone_ out of this entire mess ought to have the chance at a healthy relationship.

A large hand came down on his shoulder, and he looked up.  Qui-Gon smiled at both of them, his other hand resting on Anakin’s shoulder.  “Let’s go find Ventress, shall we?”

They were able to land the small ship in the ocean without it sinking, and without Ventress’s people landing on their heads the moment they touched down.  It was cooler outside than Obi-Wan had once preferred.  Now it was just an element to be ignored. 

The ocean, however, was _cold_.  He gritted his teeth and ducked under the waves when Anakin and Qui-Gon did, restraining the urge to laugh into the rebreather.  He probably didn’t even need the damned thing.  However, his body had to work to keep his core temperature up, and if he’d been alive, Obi-Wan would have needed the Force to keep warm, to keep plowing through the icy waves.

All three of their cloaks were dark, and when they began climbing up the rocky black cliffs of the main island, they blended right in.  Anakin was in the lead, leaving Qui-Gon between them, as Obi-Wan had insisted on climbing up last.  He could hear the sound of angry voices, and he signaled the others to halt by yanking on the dripping edge of Qui-Gon’s cloak.  Qui-Gon glanced down at him, and Obi-Wan mouthed, “Jeimor.”

Qui-Gon nodded, and Obi-Wan gripped onto the rocks with tight fingers, ignoring the cold that was numbing his hands.  _Show me, Ebon Wings,_ he said.

Jeimor sounded amused.  -My turn for a fancy nickname now, is it?- he said, and then Obi-Wan’s vision was filled with the sight of their ship, viewed by the crow from far above as Jeimor kept watch while in flight.  Their transport was being overrun by MagnaGuards, the large new battle droid the Federation had begun producing.

“Ship’s compromised,” he told Qui-Gon in a harsh whisper, claiming his vision for his own again.  It wasn’t much of a surprise, but if they had to leave in a hurry they were going to have to acquire another transport. 

Qui-Gon shook his head at the news and resumed climbing after tugging on Anakin’s robe.  They were halfway up when they heard the sound of an approaching transport.  Hoods were donned, and they pressed themselves against the rocks, hiding themselves from the light that passed over them.  The transport flew on, and Obi-Wan pushed the sodden material back off of his head. 

 _Idiots,_ he thought.  _Why the hell aren’t they searching for life-signs?_

-How do you know they’re not?- Jeimor countered.  -What if they have something else in mind?-

Obi-Wan frowned.  He didn’t like that idea at all.  But what could they do?  Either they confronted Ventress here, or they chased her all over the bloody galaxy.  He consulted the Force, found it in agreement, and continued to climb.  After moment he was grinning foolishly.

-What?- Jeimor asked.

_I was just thinking that I’m a dead Jedi Knight living under an assumed name, and still I’m following along behind my Master._

Jeimor snickered.  -How’s the view?-

Obi-Wan looked up, catching sight of powerful legs propelling Qui-Gon up, eyeing the silver fall of long wet hair.  _Couldn’t be better,_ he replied.

They reached the top of the cliffs as dusk fell, and the three of them made their way through a small passage to the flat part of the island, taking up positions around the dark edge of the path to see what lay before them.

There were several ships, large and small, parked on a makeshift landing field that was surrounded by small flashing lights.  Farther on were prefab buildings, assembled against another massive spire of rock to shelter them from the worst of the ocean winds.  “Where is everyone?” Anakin whispered, when minutes passed and no one appeared on the landing field.

“I smell a trap,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon agreed in a quiet rumble.  “They know that someone is here, of course.  Just not where.”

 _Jeimor, anything?_ he asked the crow.

-You mean besides it being a trap?-  Jeimor paused, and Obi-Wan could sense the crow circling the island.  -I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Kid- he said at last.  -Watch your ass.-

“Look,” Obi-Wan said, glancing over at Qui-Gon and Anakin.  “I can skirt the edge of this place and stay in shadow, and at least get a look at those buildings.  Perhaps we’ll get a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

“Let me do it instead,” Qui-Gon suggested, his blue eyes flashing in the dim light.  “If they discover me, I’ll be recognized as a Jedi Master, and they may stop looking for the two of you.  It would give you both more of an opportunity to explore our options.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to agree—he knew full well that Qui-Gon was capable of doing as he said—when a spike of pain hit him like a nail through his right eye, accompanied by an unpleasant realization.  “No,” he said, shaking his head.  “You and Anakin must not split up.”

Qui-Gon frowned, and Obi-Wan could feel the ripple in the Force as he and Anakin communicated with each other silently.  “All right, but your approach will likely spring the trap, Ben,” Qui-Gon said after a moment.

“True, but I can take more damage than either of you and come out of this still breathing,” Obi-Wan pointed out, shedding his wet cloak and leaving it behind on the ground.  If he was going to be ambushed, he wanted as much freedom to move as possible.  “You know,” he said, pausing as a thought occurred to him.  “There may not be an opportunity to confront Ventress here, but aboard her ship, perhaps…”

“We would be on more even footing,” Qui-Gon considered.  “Her options for escape will be just as limited as ours.”

“I’ll bet that one’s hers,” Anakin said, pointing at the largest ship, a corvette with sleek new lines.  “I’ve never seen that model before, but it looks like a command ship to me.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Obi-Wan said.  “Hold on a minute.”  A few moments later Jeimor sailed into view, settling onto Obi-Wan’s outstretched forearm.  “Jeimor, I need you to go with them.”

-What?- the crow blurted, startled.  -I’m supposed to stay with _you_ , dumbass.-

“Yes, well, staying with me right now might get you shot, and then what would we do?” Obi-Wan retorted.  “Here,” he said, and lifted his arm.  The crow grumbled and stepped from Obi-Wan’s arm to Qui-Gon’s shoulder.  “Be good.”

Qui-Gon turned his head, and for a moment cerulean blue eyes locked with amber.  “Ben is trying to keep you alive.  Being an ass about it is not polite,” Qui-Gon said.

Jeimor _hmph'd_ and lowered himself until his legs were hidden from view.  Then he fluffed up his feathers and glared at them all, sulking. 

“Don’t die,” Anakin whispered as Obi-Wan stepped out of the rocky crevice.  “There’ve been enough funerals this year.”

Obi-Wan didn’t bother to answer, concerned that his voice would carry too well after leaving their dubious shelter behind. His sense of danger was going crazy, which wasn’t the slightest bit useful because he already knew they were in grave danger. 

 _Someone tipped them off, somehow_ , he thought.

-Ya think?- Jeimor drawled.  He still sounded annoyed.  -I don’t think that Sith Lord likes you guys very much.-

 _You think?_ Obi-Wan retorted, grinning. 

**Velocity**

 

Qui-Gon kept a close watch on Ben’s progress, though he needed the Force to do it.  The moment the man had stepped into the shadows beyond them, he may as well have become invisible.

“He’s good,” Anakin said.  “Think I can convince him to spar with me?”

“Perhaps if you actually bother to ask,” Qui-Gon pointed out, smiling at his Padawan.  “And you are prepared for the return of your humility.”

“Yes, Master,” Anakin said, grinning.  “Shall we go?” 

Qui-Gon nodded, leading his Padawan into the shadows Ben had disappeared into.  The weight on his shoulder was both comforting and unsettling.  Sentience in animals he understood and recognized far more than most denizens of the galaxy, but Jeimor was different.  He wondered if it was the bird’s bond with a human that had altered his behavior.  Then he frowned as he caught himself wondering if, perhaps, it was the other way around.

They made their way to the waiting corvette without incident, crouching in the darkness to wait for their chance to board.  Qui-Gon was able to count thirty breaths before the first pre-fab building blew apart, flame erupting from all sides.  For a moment Qui-Gon could see Ben in the air, thrown back by the force of the blast.  The Knight came down hard on his right shoulder and rolled, coming up in a crouch with his ignited lightsaber in his hands. 

And for a brief, bewildering moment, Qui-Gon Jinn was dead certain that he was drowning.   

His body was so convinced that he had to force himself to gasp in air despite the sensation, pressing his hand to his heart as his breath wheezed in his chest.  Not real.  Just a vision—a very disconcerting one.  He’d accepted prescience more willingly after Obi-Wan’s death, if only to never be caught unawares again that way by a person or by the Force.  However, the ability had always limited itself to flashes and dreams.  This sense of realism was new, and he didn’t care for it at all.

Anakin touched his arm, asking without words if Qui-Gon was all right.  Qui-Gon nodded and shook off the premonition; it was of no help right now.  Droids that had been hidden from sight were activating, dropping down from where they had been clinging to the hulls of the waiting ships, shapeless bits of metal that had hidden in the dark.  Ben watched them assemble, his white blade illuminating his face and highlighting his grim smile, while the flames behind him turned his hair into living copper.

The moment the droids began to fire at Ben, all of their attention focused on the lone Jedi, Qui-Gon gripped Anakin’s shoulder.  “Go,” he hissed, and his Padawan wasted no time in darting up the boarding ramp.  Qui-Gon hesitated for few seconds, watching Ben’s lightsaber become a blur of light as he began reflecting blaster shots back at the advancing battle droids.  Then Jeimor tugged on Qui-Gon’s ear in ungentle reminder, and he bolted up the ramp.  “Which way, Anakin?” he asked, stepping into the ship.  The lights were only at half level, but even that was bright after being outside, and to his relief, he could sense no presences in the ship.  They had it to themselves, for the moment.

Anakin had his blade ignited, washing their surroundings with pale blue light.  He was glancing back and forth, considering their options.  “Not a standard corvette layout, but the bridge would still be… that way,” he said, pointing down the corridor to the left.  “Operations would be that way,” he pointed at the central corridor.  “And our best chance at finding a place to stow away…” he turned and began walking to the right, and Qui-Gon followed.  His Padawan’s understanding of ships and mechanics was unmatched, and in this instance Qui-Gon gladly trusted Anakin’s instincts over his own. 

Jeimor uttered a muted caw, nothing like his more vocal outbursts, and they both paused.  “What is it?” Qui-Gon asked, and the crow pointed his beak at a new corridor to the left. 

“Works for me,” Anakin said.  “Still keeps us away from the more used areas of the ship.”

The crow’s direction led them to a viewport, the battle clearly visible just below them.  It was eerie to watch, for they were too far into the ship to hear the whine of laser fire or the hum of the lightsaber.  Anakin frowned and shut down his lightsaber, stepping close to the viewport.

Qui-Gon focused his gaze on the black-garbed form.  It was hard to be certain, but he was almost sure there were holes in Ben’s tunics, marks of where blaster fire had gotten through his guard.  “Will he be all right?”

The crow clacked his beak and muttered something, unconcerned.  Qui-Gon decided to take that as a positive sign.

Then, to their surprise, the droids halted their fire.  Ben spun around, glancing at the halted droids that surrounded him, but never lowered his lightsaber from the guard position.  His attention was focused on someone who Qui-Gon and Anakin couldn’t yet see.  His lips moved.  There was pause, and he replied, frowning. 

A woman stepped out of the crowd of droids and into the clearing with Ben.  She was his height, humanoid, and had shaved all the hair from her head.  There were black marks tattooed around the back of her head, from temple to temple.  Attached to her belt was a blaster and two lightsabers, and Qui-Gon recognized the curved-hilt blades of Komari Vosa.  She was smiling at Ben, but the expression was not very pleasant.

“I guess that’s Ventress,” Anakin said, pressing his forehead against the transparisteel viewport.  “I sure wish we could hear what they were saying.”

Qui-Gon glanced at the panel inset into the wall.  Unfamiliar make of corvette or not, some things were universal.  There was a two-way communications device there, the better for those onboard the ship to converse with those outside.  “Absolute silence,” he ordered.  “That means you, too,” he told Jeimor, and the crow coughed at him and shifted his weight from one foot to the other in an obvious show of impatience.  Qui-Gon shook his head and activated the comm.

“—there will be more of you, of course,” Ventress was saying.  She had a rich voice, and was making a fierce attempt at sounding educated, but Qui-Gon could hear the roughness underneath.  She sounded like and presented herself as a woman in her thirties, and moved with the powerful ease of a well-trained warrior.

Ben shrugged.  “And here I thought I’d come alone.  Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?”

 Ventress’s smile vanished.  “I already know that Master Jinn and Padawan Skywalker are here, Jedi.  We’ll find them soon enough.  What I do not know…is who you are,” she said, circling him.  Ben moved with her, keeping her in his sight.

“Your informant must be miserable at his job, then,” Ben told her, “if he knew to warn you of two guests but not three.”

“Perhaps,” Ventress allowed, returning to the position she’d started from, lacing her hands together in front of her.  With a start, Qui-Gon realized he’d been misjudging her age.  Ventress was young, no older than eighteen Standard.  “Or perhaps it was an intentional lapse.  I expected to be tested eventually, for someone must take Lord Tyrannus’s place.”

“You mean Dooku?” Ben shook his head.  “I wish the Sith would choose one name and stick with it.”

“Ah!” Ventress smiled again, but her eyes were cold.  “You knew Lord Tyrannus, then?”

“We met,” Ben replied.  “We conversed.  I killed him.”

Ventress grinned with true delight.  “So you’re the one who slew Tyrannus.  You _are_ my test, then,” she said, and took the twin blades from her belt, igniting them. She or Dooku had switched the crystals, for Komari’s pale yellow blades were gone, replaced by the blood red of the Sith.

“Are you kidding me?” Ben gave the woman incredulous look.  “That’s stupid.  You should just have the droids shoot me.”

She raised her blades.  “That’s not as much fun.  Fight or die, Jedi,” she hissed with a feral smile, and leapt at him. 

Ben met her blades, teeth bared, and then it _was_ a fight, fast and ferocious.  Ventress was well-trained, but as she moved and tried to corner Ben against the rock or among the stock-still droids, Qui-Gon saw little of Dooku’s combat influence.  She had learned the way of the lightsaber before his former Master knew her, that he was certain of.

The younger Knight was good, but Qui-Gon noticed Anakin biting his lip and knew his Padawan had realized what he did:  Ben was not proficient at the Jar’Kai, and if it weren’t for his quick-thinking and speed, Ventress would have pinned him already.  _Get rid of the second blade,_ Qui-Gon found himself chanting in his head, directing the thought at Ben.  _Even the blasted odds!_

Either Ben heard him, or had the same thought, because he changed his focus from evasion to attack, focusing his efforts on Ventress’s left hand when the opportunity presented itself.  The woman frowned and spun away from him, her blades sweeping out in a red arc, a protective circle to keep herself safe from Ben’s onslaught.

None of them expected Ben to simply charge through the miniscule gap in that circle.  He abandoned blade technique and went to combat maneuvers, grabbing Ventress’s left arm in a move designed to break her wrist, disarming her in a much more brutal way.

Ben’s eyes went wide, as did Ventress’s, and too late Qui-Gon realized the young Knight’s mistake.   _No!_ he cried, watching Ben stumble and fall to his knees, still holding onto the woman’s wrist.  A shriek of mental agony struck Qui-Gon’s mind, followed a moment later by a physical scream.  Anakin had his hands up on the glass, mouth open in a silent plea for Ben to move, to get up, get away—

Ventress wrenched her hand free and shoved one of her red blades into the center of Ben’s chest, wrenching it back out again with a snarl.  Qui-Gon placed his hand over his mouth, forestalling the horrified sound that wanted to emerge from his throat.  _He’ll be fine,_ he told himself desperately.  _Remember the last duel you witnessed him win!_

“Stay out of my head, Jedi!” Ventress screamed at Ben, dropping one of her lightsabers and pointing the tip of her remaining blade at Ben’s head.

Ben was gasping for breath, fighting for it, as he raised his head and stared up into Ventress’s pale blue eyes.  To Qui-Gon’s intense surprise, there were tears glittering in the younger Knight’s eyes, and a wealth of sorrow in his expression.  “Oh…Asa…” Ben whispered, the sound almost too soft to be picked up by the ship’s speakers.  “How…how could you?”

Ventress howled in rage and pulled out her blaster, firing at point blank range. 

The only thing that saved them both was the decades Qui-Gon had spent in the field, long-used to making snap decisions despite any horror he was faced with.  He had his hand clamped down over Anakin’s mouth before his Padawan could voice his grief and rage, the repressed sound vibrating against his palm.  In the next moment Qui-Gon used the Force, turning off the two-way communication system.  Anakin struggled against him, and hot tears burned Qui-Gon’s fingers as they fell from Anakin’s eyes.  _Let me go, Master!  Let me go!_

 _Padawan!_ Qui-Gon yelled, burying his face against the leather tabards that covered Anakin’s shoulder, chest heaving in effort not to give vent to his own anguished denial. _Padawan, silence!  We can do nothing for him now!_

 _It’s not fair!_ Anakin railed back, turning in Qui-Gon’s arms and burying his face against Qui-Gon’s chest, his body shaking with repressed sobs.  _It’s not fair!  I was just getting to…to know him!  And that bitch shot him in the head!_

 _No, it’s not fair,_ Qui-Gon agreed, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to burn his last sight of Ben Lars from his memory, not wanting to recall the wisps of smoke that had risen from copper-blond hair.  He didn’t think that Ben’s bond with Jeimor could save him, not from that.  

Qui-Gon’s heart felt like dust in his chest; once more he’d lost what was becoming precious to him, and again he was helpless in the face of it.  He wrapped his arms around his Padawan, trying to give comfort in the face of loss, unaware of the tears that fell from his own eyes. 

He was still not foolish enough to drop his guard.  The ship was being boarded, though no one came even remotely close to their location.  Qui-Gon chanced another glance outside, afraid of what he might see, but no one remained, not even Ben’s body.  _She must have taken him with her_ , Qui-Gon thought, trying to calm himself, to center and focus.  That would be good, if they had boarded the correct ship.  They would be able to take the younger Knight’s body back to the Temple for the pyre it deserved. 

Qui-Gon stepped back, resting his hands on Anakin’s shoulders.  “We still have a mission to finish,” he murmured.  “We still have to stop Ventress.  Can you do this with me?” he asked, staring into Anakin’s red-rimmed eyes.

Anakin nodded and swiped at his face with his sleeve, his mouth set, expression grim.  “Yes, Master.  I can do this.  It’s—we owe him that, right?”

Qui-Gon gave his Padawan a strained smile, knowing that Anakin would understand.  “Yes.  If this is the last we can do for him, then that’s what we do.”

Anakin frowned at him then, his brow furrowed in confusion.  “Master, where’s Jeimor?”

Qui-Gon raised his head in surprise, only realizing in that moment that he couldn’t remember when the crow’s heavy weight had left his shoulder.  “I have no idea.  I didn’t even hear him leave.”

“He’s…probably looking for Ben,” Anakin whispered.  “I guess that means we’ll know where to find him later, huh?”

Qui-Gon nodded and turned away from the viewport.  “Let’s see to this, Padawan,” he said, pulling his lightsaber from his belt and igniting the emerald blade.  The ship began vibrating underneath his feet as the engines fired up.  Ventress was taking her leave of Bestine IV.

They fought their way to the bridge, mowing down the droids they encountered with fierce efficiency.  The narrow corridors improved their chances, forcing the droids to confront them in columns of two instead of en masse.  Qui-Gon led them forward, tracking the roiling cloud of dark emotions he could sense.  Ventress. 

The bridge, when they arrived, was dark and deserted.  Qui-Gon held up his blade in guard position and stalked into the room, Anakin at his side.  “I smell another trap, Master,” Anakin said.

“Me, too,” he admitted, turning in place.  That sense of darkness was still close, but he couldn’t pinpoint her location now. 

The Force flared in warning, too late, and blue energy shields coalesced into place around them before Qui-Gon could shove Anakin out of range.  “Damn!” he swore, as Anakin struck the shield with his lightsaber.  The shield repelled his blade with ease, which meant that the shield would also reflect blasts from the outside as well.  They were safe for the moment, if imprisoned.

“Jedi,” Ventress’s voice floated out of the darkness.  “Always skulking about in the dark.  Like _rats_ ,” she hissed.  The lights flared up to full power, revealing her standing on the command platform above them, flanked by several droids as well as the ship’s crew, garbed in the Confederacy’s blue and gray uniforms.  Behind her was a much taller, wider figure, covered from head to toe in massive plate armor.  “I knew you had to be here somewhere,” she continued, giving them a mocking smile.

“I’m afraid we haven’t been properly introduced,” Qui-Gon said, staring up at her.  Anakin’s anger at the woman was beating at his shields, and it was all he could do not to growl at the woman.  _Calm, Padawan,_ he sent. 

“I am Asajj Ventress, Warlord of Rattatak, Commander in the Confederate Forces, and assassin of the Sith,” she proclaimed.  “As your friend learned, much to his regret.”

 Anakin ground his teeth together so hard the sound was audible.  “I wonder how you’d fare against a Jedi that’s actually trained in the Jar’Kai,” he bit out.

Ventress gave him a disdainful look.  “I wonder how _you_ would fare without your Master to guard your back.”

Anakin smiled.  “Turn off the force-field, and you can find out.”

She laughed.  “Oh, I’m not going to do that.  I’m young, Padawan Skywalker, but not foolish.”  She jumped down from the platform to approach their energy prison.  “I had thought presenting the body of the one who defeated Dooku would be interesting enough.  Presenting the two of you, alive, to Lord Sidious, however…”  She smiled again.  “The Sith will be hard-pressed to deny my usefulness to him.  Apprentice has a much better ring to it than Assassin, don’t you think?”

“Sidious is his name?” Qui-Gon inclined his head.  “Thank you.  We’ve been wondering about that for some time now.”

“You won’t be thanking me when you meet him, Master Jinn,” Ventress said, her smile vanishing.  “Believe me.”

“Commander,” one of the uniformed men called out.  He was a human, with gray hair and eyes like frosted steel.  “There is a problem in the aft section of the ship.”

Ventress looked up at him, unimpressed.  “Then deal with it, Captain.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, settling into place at his station and gesturing for the other crewmen to do the same.  “Likely it’s another glitch.  A ship this new is still in shakedown phase.”

 _I wonder if it’s Jeimor_ , Anakin sent the hesitant thought.  _I’d be awfully pissed off, if I were him._

Qui-Gon was considering the same thing.  If there was one thing a crow was good at, it was creating mischief.  “Problems?” he asked Ventress with a polite smile.

“I doubt that,” Ventress replied, just before her Captain called for her attention again, an angry cast to his features.

“Commander, I’m getting no response from anyone in the aft section of the ship,” he said, frowning as he listened to his comm.

The lights on the bridge flickered once before restoring themselves.  Ventress turned her attention back to the Jedi, scowling at them.  “Did you bring yet another mystery friend with you?” she asked, her voice soft.  “Someone new for me to kill?”

Anakin and Qui-Gon glanced at each other.  “Sorry, not us,” Anakin told her, putting on his best innocent expression.  “Must be some other saboteur on your ship.”

The Captain stood up, pointing at three men, directing them to go with the droids.  “Whatever the hell is going on, find it and _fix it_ ,” he ordered, his lips a thin line of anger. 

There were several minutes of tense silence on the part of the Confederates.  Qui-Gon and Anakin spent the time communicating through their bond, searching for the controls to their trap without success.  That option gone, Anakin began prodding at the shield with the Force, searching for weak points that could be exploited while Qui-Gon kept his attention on Ventress. 

After a time, the Captain shook his head again, his cheeks red with anger.  “Commander, the team I just sent is no longer responding to my hails.”

“Bring up the security feeds,” Ventress barked, pointing at a young Rodian who didn’t look pleased to be singled out.  “Show me the rest of this ship on-screen, now!”

The Rodian crewman nodded, and the main screen that had been reflecting the blue glow of the planet below them became scenes from various security cameras throughout the rear of the ship.  The Rodian flipped through each feed slowly, allowing everyone on the bridge plenty of time to view crushed droid bodies and unconscious, blue-gray uniformed crewmen visible on the floor. 

 _It can’t be,_ Anakin said, but in the next moment they both knew that it was.

The vid feed that the Rodian switched over to showed more piles of dismantled droid, but Ben Lars as well.  He was staring straight up at the camera, unblinking and still.  Jeimor was perched on his shoulder, and the crow’s head was turned, focusing on the camera with one glowing amber eye.  Ben’s face was dusted with white once more, black lining his eyes and spreading out in careful streaks across his cheeks.

 _Crow’s wings_ , Qui-Gon realized, taking in the sweeping black pattern, his heart hammering in his chest.  _That’s what the pattern represents._   The dust around Ben’s eyes was a crow’s body, and the long streaks across his cheeks, feathers.

Even Ben’s lips were dusted with black, and as they watched, he smiled and held up his hand.  Crooking his fingers, he waved at the camera three times before the feed went black.

Qui-Gon felt Anakin’s hand creep into his and took it gladly.  He couldn’t tell if he was relieved to see that Ben had survived after all, or horrified because he _should not have_.

Ventress was staring at the blackened feed, shock on her features, before she whirled around.  “Durge!” she yelled.  “Go and find that Jedi and kill him!  Pull him apart if you must, just make sure he’s _dead_!”

“Certainly, Asajj,” the armored being replied.  His voice was a harsh, vile rasp.  “Should I keep any pieces for Lord Sidious, or am I allowed to have fun?”

Ventress bared her teeth at Durge in vague approximation of a smile.  “I still have these two,” she said.  “Go and play.”  Durge turned and strode from the bridge.  Only the Captain, the Rodian, Ventress, Qui-Gon, and Anakin remained.  “Captain,” Ventress hissed, glowering up at the man.  “Access the Temple files on Coruscant.  Use the slicer codes.  Get me the files for Knight Ben Lars!”

“Well, I guess now we know how they deleted Kamino from the Archives,” Anakin said.  “Sith, Master,” he continued under his breath.  “How the hell did Ben survive that?”

“I don’t know,” Qui-Gon replied quietly, but his thoughts went back to that same fragment of memory from the eve of their shared meal, the tale he’d once heard. 

The tale of a crow…

“I’ve got it, Commander,” the Captain said, interrupting Qui-Gon’s thoughts.  “On-screen now.”

They all turned their attention to the viewscreen, and there was the file Qui-Gon had resolved to look for when they’d returned to the Temple.  “Hell,” he whispered.  Curiosity about Ben’s past aside, they needed to get those codes away from Ventress.

[Lars, Ben, Initiate.  Tested at age two months, five days.  Confirmed high Force potential.  Midichlorian count: twelve thousand point seven-five.  Released to the Jedi by Lars, Cliegg (Father) and Lars, Aika (Mother), both confirmed non-sensitive.  Brought to the Temple by Master Jewrrin.  Accepted into the creche by Master Yoda.]

The file ended there, which was odd.  No medical or schooling records—nothing on Ben’s acceptance as a Padawan, which he most certainly had been.

Crow wings.  Jeimor.  Dust.  Qui-Gon closed his eyes and allowed the memory to form, the lost threads of that long-ago tale coming back to him in Yoda’s distinctive syntax:

_Believed, people once did, that crows carried our souls from this world to the next.  A long time ago, this was, when the Republic was new.  Happened it would, though, that evil shortened their lives, and go to their rest, some souls could not.  So rare, this was, younglings—so very, very rare.  Back, the crow would fly, bringing such a soul with it.  Put right, those wrong things were, under ebon wing and veil of night._

_“But what about the Force, Master Yoda?” he’d wondered, a child of eight and the most outspoken of his crechemates.  “Where does the Force come into this?”_

_“The Force is what it is, young Qui-Gon,” Yoda had said, smiling.  “Affect it, this does, or it does not.  Justice is not so black and white for us as it is for the dead, hmm?”_

_“If it was thousands of years ago, then why tell us this anyway?” he asked, refusing to let the matter drop.  Crows and souls and the dead returning.  He privately thought the entire thing was silly._

_Yoda’s ears had risen, as if he was surprised by the question.  “Matters, our history always does.”_

“The rest of the file is blank—no, wait,” the Captain corrected himself.  “There’s an appended file down at the bottom.”

Qui-Gon didn’t need to see it, not now, but he looked anyway.  He needed the focus, for it was hard to breathe against the sudden, agonizing pain in his chest.

[Addition to bloodline:  Lars, Owen.  Confirmed non-sensitive.  Mother deceased.]

“Died in childbirth,” Anakin read, a touch of sadness in his voice.  “That’s awful.”

He agreed, distantly wondering what had possessed Cliegg Lars to move his family to a planet as backwater as Tatooine after living on Ator. 

[Age two:  Legal documentation secured for name change of Lars, Ben, Initiate, as requested by Lars, Cliegg.  File officially closed.  All new inquiries directed to file of Kenobi, Obi-Wan, Initiate.]

“What?” Anakin gasped, staring at the screen with shocked-widened eyes, his mouth open.  “That’s impossible.”

Ventress was staring at the screen as the Captain scrolled down through the larger, much more complete file.  “I should have known,” she ground out, glowering at Qui-Gon as the references to his apprenticeship began.  “He’s one of yours.”

The Captain reached the bottom of the file, and Qui-Gon noticed with a distant sort of amusement that his face had gone white.  “Commander, you need to read this.”

“What?” Ventress snapped, looking back up at the viewscreen.  There was a holo of Obi-Wan there, a profile view of how he’d looked in the last year of his life.  Next to it was a simple, stark epitaph.  The date of the Battle of Theed, the day Qui-Gon had held his Padawan as Obi-Wan had taken his last breath.

“Impossible,” Ventress breathed, echoing Anakin’s sentiment.  “This is a trick.  It has to be.  Captain, keep searching.  Captain!” she repeated, whirling back around to face the command podium.

The Captain was collapsed in a heap on the floor.  Jeimor was perched on the unconscious man’s head, looking smug.  In the seat at the command station, his booted feet propped up on the terminal and bearing a musing smile…

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispered.

Obi-Wan was staring at the holo projected on the viewscreen.  “That is an awful picture.  You couldn’t find anything better?” he asked, looking down at Qui-Gon.  His eyes were blue-green, the color Qui-Gon had seen on Geonosis and later thought he’d imagined.

He was trembling, his mind reeling.  He should have known—he _had_ known, and he’d denied it.  Gods.  “You…you kept making faces every time someone tried to snag a holo of you that year,” he choked out.

“Oh, yeah,” Obi-Wan said, tilting his head.  “Forgot about that.  Still, at least it would have been interesting.  Sorry about your Captain,” he nodded at Ventress.  “He saw me and passed out.”

The Rodian had gotten up from his chair, and was staring at Obi-Wan with his blaster raised.  Both weapon and Rodian were shaking.

“Hi!” Obi-Wan said, smiling cheerfully at the young crewman.

The Rodian squeaked, dropped his blaster, and fled.

“You’d think he’d seen a ghost,” Obi-Wan said, in the deadpan tone he’d always used when delivering the worst puns Qui-Gon had ever heard in his life.

“You,” Ventress hissed.  “I killed you once.  I can certainly kill you again.”

Obi-Wan snickered.  “Well, you can certainly try.  It’s sort of hard to kill someone who’s already dead, though, so you might find it difficult.”

“I wounded you, I shot you, I left behind a smoking corpse,” she spat.  “You bleed just fine for a ghost.”

He shrugged.  “Death is sort of like virtue in that it has its degrees.”

“Where’s Durge?” Ventress asked, the hint of a hopeful smile on her face.  “You won’t speak so prettily by the time he’s done with you.”

“Oh.  Him.”  Obi-Wan put his feet down and tapped out a sequence on the terminal, and the viewscreen reverted to showing what was immediately outside the ship.  “There he goes.”

In the blackness of space outside, the armored form floated past, arms and legs struggling for purchase where there was none.  “You spaced him?” Anakin blurted out, finding his voice at last.

“Eh, he’s Gen’Dai, he’ll be fine,” Obi-Wan said, unconcerned.  He touched the console again, and the blue force-field around Qui-Gon and Anakin vanished.  Obi-Wan stood up and hopped down from the command podium with swift, preternatural movements, standing before Ventress with his hands laced together behind his back. 

“Holy shit,” Anakin said, noticing the collection of holes in Obi-Wan’s tunics, the blood marring his hair and skin.  “You—what _are_ you?”

 _“Avatairee_ ,” Qui-Gon murmured, swallowing against the lump in his throat as he remembered the hesitation in Ben’s eyes as he’d approached him, the edginess, and the stark refusal to let Qui-Gon blame his Master for _any_ perceived wrongdoing.  “Force, you’re an Avatar.  You and Jeimor.”

“What he said,” Obi-Wan grinned, stepping closer to Ventress, who’d pulled the blaster from her belt again.  He eyed the weapon without a trace of concern.  “Considering that your blaster has already proven itself ineffective, don’t you think this is a bit silly?”

“No,” Ventress growled, and shot Obi-Wan in the chest. 

He flinched, curling inward on himself for a brief moment before straightening up once more.  “Ow,” he grumbled, taking another step forward.  “Stop that.”  Jeimor flapped his wings, cawing at Ventress in annoyance.

Anakin stared in rapt, horrified amazement.  “Okay, that’s just creepy.”

Ventress fired again, nailing Obi-Wan in the shoulder, but this time he just kept walking.  She kept firing, her shots becoming wild and missing him much more than she hit him.  In no time Obi-Wan was standing almost nose-to-nose with the woman, looking at her with one eyebrow raised.   Qui-Gon found himself holding his breath, wondering what it was he was about to witness.

She halted, uncertain, a great deal of bewildered anger on her face.  Obi-Wan plucked the blaster from her hand and tossed it away to clatter to the floor in a distant corner.  “We were in the middle of a conversation before, Asa,” he said.

Ventress’s eyes widened, and her anger melted away, replaced by fear.  “No!” she gasped, shaking her head.  “No, don’t—”

Whatever denial she was about to voice was cut off when Obi-Wan touched her, cradling her face with gentle hands.

 

 _I will show you fear in a handful of dust._  
_-T. S. Eliot_

 

Obi-Wan ignored the pain of his body, ignored the horrified shock on Anakin’s face, the quiet, stunned, grieving recognition in Qui-Gon’s eyes.  Right now there was only the terrible wailing of a lost child, and it _had_ to be dealt with.

The moment he touched her face with his hands, she stilled, closing her eyes as if his touch was painful.  Maybe it was.  He’d never tried to use the psychometry backwards like this, making her see what was in her own heart.

“You’re not a Sith,” he told her, his voice soft, as the memories streamed through his mind’s eye, the same recollection he was subjecting Ventress to.  “Waging a war against the Republic and the Jedi won’t bring him back, Asa.”  He watched again as her parents were slaughtered in front of her by a warlord of her planet, leaving the orphaned young girl to die in the harsh badlands of Rattatak.  He could feel her horror, her despair, as clearly as if it had been his own.

She moaned and opened her eyes.  “Please don’t make me remember,” she begged, her eyes full of desperate pleading.  “Please don’t, I don’t want to—”

“Shhh,” he said, and rested his forehead against hers, sharing the memories, sharing the joy and the pain of loss once more.

“ _You’re a what?” Asajj asked, staring up at the tall stranger in confusion.  She’d never seen a ship from the stars before.  None of her people had, but Asajj had been the one to find the ship, and its pilot._

_“A Jedi,” the injured man repeated, frowning as he bound his arm with a strip of cloth torn from his own brown robe.  “I guess I must have skipped out of Republic space, huh?”_

_“What’s a Republic?” she asked._

_He smiled at her and placed his hand on her head.  The touch should have been abhorrent, but instead she felt comforted, the same way her mother had always made her feel.  “My name’s Ky Narec,” he said.  “And I’ll tell you all about the Jedi and the Republic in exchange for your company, little one.”_

_She smiled.  Company!  Someone who wanted to spend time with the orphaned one, the outcast one.  “Deal,” she said, holding out her hand, palm up, delighted when he struck her hand with his palm._

*          *          *          *

_“Again, Padawan,” Master Ky said, watching her bladework with a critical eye.  “You can do it.”_

_“You are full of excrement, as usual, Master,” Asajj retorted, sweat pouring down her face as she ran through the kata again at full speed.  For all her teacher insisted that this was easy to learn, Asajj had been practicing it for hours and had yet to complete it successfully._

_“Yes, well, I can always solve that problem by visiting a ’fresher,” Master Ky replied, amused.  “You, however, need to remember to stop, breathe, and feel the Force, or you’re going to be my Padawan until you die of old age.”_

_Quietly, she thought that being Ky Narec’s Padawan for her entire life would be a wonderful thing, but her Master was certain they would return to that Coruscant place one day.  She wanted her Master to be able to go back with a proper student—perhaps even a Knight!—at his side.  “Yes, Master,” she said, and tried once more to do as he instructed._

*          *          *          *

_“Asa.  Here.”_

_Asajj dropped her weapons and fell to her knees, gathering her Master into her arms.  In the Force, she could feel his presence, and knew that it was too late.  She was too late.  She couldn’t help him.  His life’s blood was almost gone._

_“Don’t cry, Asa,” Ky said in a faint voice, reaching up and brushing the tears from her face.  “I will always be with you.”_

_“It’s not the same,” she sobbed, resting her forehead against his.  “I don’t know what to do without you!”_

_“You will be a Jedi…just like I taught you to be,” Ky insisted, smiling.  “Just keep walking forward, Padawan, and you’ll be fine.”_

_She held him close and sang to him until he was gone, and then she took his lightsaber from his hand.  Osika Kirske had done this, had murdered her Master just as he had murdered her parents._

_She would keep walking forward.  But first, she was going to find Kirske, and every single one of his allies, and let them all feel the burn of her Master’s blade._

Obi-Wan caught her when Asajj collapsed against him, sobbing out the grief and anger that had guided her steps since Ky Narec’s death.  “It’s all right,” he soothed her.  “Let it go.”

“It’s _not_ all right,” Asajj insisted, her hands fisting his ruined tunics.  “He’d hate what I did, he’d _hate it!_ He would hate _me!_ ”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, hugging her and letting his presence in the Force soothe her in a way she hadn’t felt since losing her Master.  “He wouldn’t hate you, Asa.  You were lost and alone.  He wouldn’t lay blame on you for that.  Maybe if you’d had a few more years together you could have held on in the face of all of that grief, but he died, and that wasn’t the fault of either of you.”

“It wasn’t fair,” she whispered.  “And I betrayed everything he tried to teach me.”

“You’ve been blaming yourself for a long time now,” Obi-Wan said, realizing that Anakin and Qui-Gon were approaching with slow, cautious steps.  “It’s time for that to stop.”

“What if I can’t?” she said, looking up at him with luminous blue eyes, her face streaked with tears.  At last, she looked her true age, a Rattataki girl of only seventeen years. 

“It’s easy to die for someone, Asa,” he told her.  “Living for someone—that’s much harder.”  Obi-Wan breathed out a laugh, amused by the irony of the entire situation.  “Believe me, I would know.  The question is:  Do you want to go back to the Confederacy and keep trying to die for your Master?  Or do you want to go and see what Ky wanted for you?  Do you want to live for him?”

**Absolution**

 

There was so much Qui-Gon wanted to say.  Most of it had piled up behind the rock that seemed to have taken up residence in his throat.  Duty came first, as it must, and Qui-Gon, Anakin, and Obi-Wan made short work of gathering up their new Confederate prisoners.  Qui-Gon was not surprised that a command vessel of the Confederacy had a brig, but in this moment it was a convenience and a relief.  Obi-Wan had deactivated the rest of the battle droids when he’d been toying with the bridge controls, so they could move freely about the ship without fear of attack.

Asajj Ventress, former Padawan of Jedi Knight Ky Narec, had been placed in one of the officer’s quarters.  She’d protested, at first, saying she had her own rooms, but Obi-Wan had shushed her with gentle words and told her that she needed to rest somewhere that wasn’t steeped in Darkness.  She’d given in, falling asleep under Obi-Wan’s watchful eye like an exhausted child. 

Watching them together, seeing peace and forgiveness where there would only have been enmity, tore at Qui-Gon’s heart.  He’d felt Darkness in Ventress, and had looked no further.  Obi-Wan had seen through that facade, found the Jedi underneath that was worth saving.  After her tears had purged her of those brittle, harsh emotions, like a wound being cleansed of poisons, little of that dark cloud remained.  Only gray strands of grief swirled around the lost Padawan, now, and in her exhaustion she was as docile as a newborn feline. 

He had to grit his teeth when he and Anakin agreed to take the corvette’s shuttle down to Bestine IV, foolishly gripped by the fear that the corvette would disappear into the ether, taking Obi-Wan with it.  As if sensing the thought, Obi-Wan had smiled and sent Jeimor to accompany them.

How well Obi-Wan still understood him.  Jeimor’s restless, irritated weight on Qui-Gon’s shoulder had reassured him when nothing else would have. 

Anakin jumped out of the ship into the ocean to retrieve their tiny craft, but not before offering Qui-Gon a hesitant grin, saying that it would be nice not to have to report another lost ship to the Council.  Qui-Gon had agreed, trying to smile in response.  Anakin’s eyes had still been wide with shock.  Qui-Gon imagined he looked much the same. 

Both ships were now docked in the corvette’s small hangar bay.  The prisoners were conscious, grumbling under the watch of speedily reprogrammed guard-droids, who would see to their needs on the flight back to Coruscant.  Ventress was in a Force-assisted sleep.  Jeimor was also slumbering, perched on the back of the chair at the command console on the bridge.  Messages were sent, and the ship was in hyperspace, with nothing to see out of the viewscreen but the blue-white streaks of stars.

There was nothing else to do…but talk. 

The rock in his throat refused to budge.  Qui-Gon rested his head against the console, trying to regain his center while listening to Jeimor mutter in his sleep behind him.  He could do this.  He could face this situation rationally, like a Jedi Master, and not fall to pieces in the process.

 _Right_ , he thought, snorting with wry amusement.  He was already falling to pieces.  Why try to fool himself?

The three of them met in the ship’s small communal dining area, staggering in one at a time from completing the tasks necessary to get the Confederate ship into Republic space without getting shot down in the process.  Ben had arrived first, and was able to point out a fresh pot of tea waiting for Anakin and Qui-Gon.  He was sitting on the floor, his back pressed up against the wall, staring reflectively at nothing in particular.

No.  Not Ben.  Obi-Wan.  Qui-Gon found himself smiling; that was going to be a hard habit to break.

He decided to follow Obi-Wan’s example, retrieving a mug of dark, bitter-looking tea and seating himself on the floor a few feet away.  Anakin, holding his own tea and a dubious-looking sandwich, eyed them curiously before sitting on the floor as well.

“You know, there are chairs in here,” Anakin decided to point out, after taking a few bites of his sandwich.

Obi-Wan blinked a few times and looked at Anakin.  The dust on his face, combined with the drying blood and destroyed tunics should have looked threatening, but didn’t.  There was too much of a Jedi’s serene presence in his gaze.  “Well…yes.  Why aren’t you sitting on one?”

Anakin shrugged.  “I thought we were all sitting on the floor for a reason.”

“I’m sitting on the floor because I feel like I’m going to pass out at any moment, and didn’t want to suffer the indignity of falling out of a chair,” Obi-Wan said, leaning his head back to rest on the wall, closing his eyes. 

Qui-Gon watched him in silence.  Gods, but he really did speak in exactly the same way, even if death seemed to have made Obi-Wan’s playful side a bit more…manic.  He shuddered.

“So, you do need to sleep?” Anakin asked, his innate curiosity surging to the fore once more.

Obi-Wan seemed amused by the question.  “I got shot in the head.  Not only did it hurt, it also takes quite a bit of energy to heal from something like that.  Jeimor, being imminently more sensible than I am, is already asleep somewhere.”

“I left him snoring on a chair in the bridge,” Qui-Gon said, surprised that the rock in his throat allowed him to speak. 

“Mm.  Figures,” Obi-Wan replied.  His voice was normal, as Qui-Gon’s had been—as if there was not ten years of distance between them, and Obi-Wan being present wasn’t something straight out of a fantasy. 

Anakin put his mug down, biting his lip.  “Ben?  I mean, Obi-Wan?”

“Either works, Anakin.  They’re both true.”

“Right,” Anakin said, looking uncomfortable for a moment.  “What’s it like to be dead?”

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, lifted his head, and stared at Anakin in surprise.  “You know, you’re the first person to ask me that?”          

Anakin ducked his head apologetically.  “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” Obi-Wan said, shaking his head.  “I…”  He paused, uncertain.  “It…”  He glanced away from them, his eyes unfocused.  “Seconds,” he whispered at last.  “It felt like seconds.  Seconds in silence.”

Qui-Gon realized that every single hair on his body was trying to stand on end.  “That doesn’t sound very nice,” Anakin said, his eyes huge.

Obi-Wan looked back at them, as if realizing the effect his words were having.  “Well, that’s not _all_ that death is,” he said, and dipped his finger into the mug of tea he’d been steadfastly ignoring.  He leaned forward, drawing a wet line on the floor in front of him, and then shook off the excess tea.  “Say that this here,” he said, putting his right hand on one side of the line, “is life, everything that we can experience right now.”  Obi-Wan put his left hand down on the other side of the line.  “And this is everything that comes after, whatever that may be.”

“But shouldn’t you know what that is?” Anakin asked, confused. 

“I stayed…here,” Obi-Wan said, resting one finger on the line itself.  “So no, I don’t know.”

“What is that?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice little more than a rasp.  The rock, it seemed, was growing.

Obi-Wan looked up, meeting Qui-Gon’s gaze.  His eyes remained blue-green, not the gray Qui-Gon had become accustomed to seeing.  “She called it the borderlands,” he said, his voice soft.  “Who she is, I don’t know, but…I think she meant that it was a boundary.  And I refused to go any farther than I had to.”

Qui-Gon stared at Obi-Wan.  In that moment he was somewhere else, holding onto his Padawan’s slight, lifeless body, cradling him, feeling a tidal wave of colossal grief unlike anything he’d ever known.  There had been peace in Obi-Wan’s eyes when he’d died, a peace Qui-Gon had never shared.  “Why?”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak, closed it, his eyes searching Qui-Gon’s face.  “Something broke,” he whispered, and in a blink he was on his feet, shaking his head.  The silver beads in his long braids of hair were dull with blood.  “I need a shower,” he said, and practically bolted from the room.

He stared, part of himself straining to go after Obi-Wan.  The rest was still trying to comprehend what, exactly, had just happened. 

“Master?”

Qui-Gon looked over at Anakin, who inclined his head and smiled.  “Pot, kettle, black, Master,” he said, in approval and blessing.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon replied, climbing to his feet to seek out his Avatar.

 

 _No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear._  
_-C. S. Lewis_

 

Obi-Wan had to dig through a haphazard pile of all of their things on the Temple ship to find clothing that was his.  The droids, when searching their craft for hints as to their whereabouts, had _not_ been concerned with keeping things in order.

There was a shower and decontamination area next to the hangar bay, and that was where he went, pulling off his boots and throwing them at the metal walls as he stalked inside.  A row of lockers, as tall as a standard humanoid, lined one wall.  There was a bench on the other side, and beyond that were nozzles lining the walls, one bay for chemical cleaning, another devoted to basic cleansing. 

He sat down on the end of the bench, ripped off his ruined tunics, and threw them at the lockers.  Then he bent over and buried his face in his hands.  “Fuck,” he grumbled.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

Qui-Gon knew.  Knew, and had reacted…  Well, that was the entire problem.  He had no idea how his former Master was reacting.  Obi-Wan didn’t even know how _he_ was reacting.  Aside from running away to hide in a shower, that was.  He was at a complete and utter loss. 

Obi-Wan forced himself not to move when he felt the other man’s approach.  When warm fingers settled onto his back, he flinched, taking a deep, shaky breath.

For a few minutes there was only touch—soothing, glorious touch, the simple brush of fingertips against his skin.  He closed his eyes and began to relax, as he always had when his Master had attempted to calm him this way.

“Did you have no choice,” Qui-Gon asked, his voice a soft rumble, “but to bear the scars of the wound that caused your death?”

“I don’t know,” he said, dropping his hands away from his face.  “I woke up and it was there.”

“Where?” Qui-Gon asked, his fingers coming to rest on the round burn scar on Obi-Wan’s back, where a Sith’s blade had once pierced his flesh. 

“Geonosis.  Disoriented, confused, rocks poking me in the backside.”  Obi-Wan felt Qui-Gon’s faint amusement at his words.  “Come to think of it, I’m fortunate I didn’t wake up naked, considering Jeimor’s sense of humor.”  He lifted his head at last.  “I’d been breathing desert air for an entire hour when you saw me again.”

“I knew it was you,” Qui-Gon said, surprising him.  “I knew, and then rejected that knowledge.  I couldn’t—I couldn’t allow myself to believe it.”

He lifted his legs, swiveling around on the bench so that he could look up at Qui-Gon.  “Why not?”

Qui-Gon sank to his knees before him, and didn’t speak.  Instead, he held out his hands, palm up, in invitation.

Obi-Wan swallowed, lifting his hands.  Oh, there would be no mistaking anything after this, no doubts left once he touched Qui-Gon’s skin and felt the truth of his memories.  “Are you…”  His voice cracked; he cleared his throat and tried again.  “Are you sure?  I can’t—I can’t control what I’ll see.”

Qui-Gon only gazed at him, and behind the serenity in his eyes was that deep, lurking sadness.  The one thing Obi-Wan did not see, however, was doubt.  Qui-Gon knew what he was offering.

Obi-Wan sighed and tried to steel himself.  If he’d thought Ventress’s memories had been painful…

His hands hovered over Qui-Gon’s palms for just a moment, trembling, before he let his fingertips brush skin.  He sucked in a breath, feeling his eyes roll back in his head just before he lost sight of everything before him, and could see only the memories of another.

**Elegy**

 

_The red energy shield slammed closed in front of his face, and if Qui-Gon had not broken his nose long ago, he might have just chanced losing the end of it.  As it was, he shut down his lightsaber, calling on the Force in a desperate bid to refuel exhausted reserves.  The Sith was good; he was very, very good.  Despite his and Obi-Wan’s reputation for wielding the best blades in the Order, they were just barely holding their own._

_Damn the Council anyway, for their short-sightedness, their refusal to believe that Qui-Gon could recognize Darkness when he saw it.  There should have been a full team of Jedi sent back to Naboo, not just a negotiating pair._

_Then there was his Padawan, his silent shadow of the past few days.  Even now Obi-Wan was quiet, standing before the red shield at the far end of the corridor, not responding to the Sith’s taunts and harsh laughter.  His blade was still ignited, but his shoulders were steady, his head lifted, as if Obi-Wan were not as drained as Qui-Gon knew them both to be._

_They needed to plan together, to communicate beyond the quiet civility that they had managed to re-cultivate in the swamp.  He reached down the bond they shared and to his intense surprise, discovered that there was nothing on the other end.  It was untethered, the unwound ends twisting in the Force as if waving on a gentle breeze._

_As if it had never been connected to anything at all._

_“Obi-Wan!” he shouted_.

_His Padawan turned his head at Qui-Gon’s call, looking back over his shoulder at him, and Qui-Gon felt all of the air rush from his lungs in realization.  There was a calm acceptance in Obi-Wan’s eyes, a depth of serenity that Qui-Gon had once despaired of ever helping the boy to master._

_Obi-Wan knew he was going to his death.  He had_ known _he was going to die, else how to explain such an expertly unwound bond?  There would have been no chance during their battle with the Sith to do such fine work._

_“No,” he whispered, but Obi-Wan had already turned his attention back to the Sith, and the energy shields opened again.  Obi-Wan engaged the Sith, their blades a blur of blue and red, and Qui-Gon ran down the hall, a frustrated growl on his lips because he could not use the Force to increase his speed, he had not the strength left for such a thing if was going to be called into combat once more._

_The last energy shield fell into place in front of him, and he could only watch, holding his lightsaber in a white-knuckled grip, the only sign he would allow of his own inner turmoil.  Obi-Wan was…_

_Force, Obi-Wan was_ dancing.

_The younger man’s restrained fire had been allowed to run free, but instead of boiling over, as Qui-Gon and others had once feared, it was like Light itself had been unleashed.  The Sith was on the defensive in the face of the skill Obi-Wan displayed in that moment, his Padawan communing with the Force on a level even some Masters still struggled with._

_Gods, it was beautiful._ He _was beautiful, and as joy and fierce pride surged in his chest, Qui-Gon allowed himself to hope that he’d been wrong._

_A fierce clash, and the Sith lost half of his lightsaber to a brilliant feint and twist, and on the follow-through Obi-Wan managed to injure the Sith, as well.  The tattooed Zabrak howled in rage and pain, muscles and tendons severed, leaving his left arm, his weaponless arm, hanging uselessly at his side._

_But in injuring his opponent, Obi-Wan had left himself vulnerable.  There was no chance to avoid the remaining blood-red blade.  The Force answered Qui-Gon’s call, but the Sith deflected the Force-shove.  Qui-Gon could only watch in horror, and breathe out faint, desperate refusal, as the Sith stabbed Obi-Wan in the chest, just above his heart._

_Their eyes met for a few brief seconds; there was pain on his Padawan’s face, his skin already pale with shock, but there was no surprise in his eyes.  Tactical suicide.  He’d sacrificed himself to leave Qui-Gon a certain victory._

_Maybe he screamed; maybe there was silence, and the scream was only in his own head, but it seemed like heartbreak should create a sound that everything in the universe could hear._

_The Sith let Obi-Wan fall, turning his attention back to Qui-Gon, still oozing confidence.  When the red shield gave way, Qui-Gon wasted no time in wiping the confidence from the bastard’s face.  After what Obi-Wan had done, the fight was almost ridiculously easy, and Qui-Gon didn’t bother restraining a triumphant shout when he sent two pieces of Sith into the melting pit.  He stood at its edge and watched the Sith fall, breathing hard and trying not to succumb to the rage he felt, battle lust in his blood and devastation in his heart._

_Then none of it mattered, because he could sense that Obi-Wan still lived, and that meant there was time.  Qui-Gon raced across the room to the still, pale form, falling to his knees.  Obi-Wan’s eyes were closed, but at the touch of Qui-Gon’s trembling fingers on his face, they flickered open.  They were not blue-green, but gray, as if life was stealing color as it fled.  Impossibly, Obi-Wan smiled up at him, the expression filled with such warmth and love that it felt as if the few remaining pieces of Qui-Gon’s heart were broken anew._

_How could he be so blind, as to not realize he loved this man?_

_He gathered his Padawan’s unresisting body into his arms, and already it was like he weighed nothing.  There was no healing the Sith’s wound, no saving his Padawan from this fate even if Qui-Gon had not been on the verge of collapse.  Obi-Wan’s heart was burnt, beating in a failing, desperate attempt to keep life flowing.  His spine was damaged, and both of his lungs were almost destroyed by the heat that had pierced him._

_“Obi-Wan,” he whispered, feeling hot tears burn lines of fire down his face.  “Why…”   He couldn’t finish the question, because he knew.  Obi-Wan had always,_ always _made sure Qui-Gon came first, even if it flew in the face of all good sense.  Qui-Gon had repaid Obi-Wan’s stubbornness, his unwavering devotion and love, with harsh words and dismissal.  Worse, he’d failed his Padawan in the most crucial way, and as he felt the Force gather like dusk falling across the sky, Qui-Gon knew he would never have the chance to make it right._

_And he was lost._

_Obi-Wan reached up with one shaking hand, touching Qui-Gon’s face, catching Qui-Gon’s tears on his fingertips.  Then his hand fell, strength gone, and Qui-Gon caught it.  Obi-Wan’s hands were cold, lacking the heat of the living already, and it wasn’t fair.  Force, this was not right, it would_ never _be right._

_“Train Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, the words seeming to have no more strength than a breath.  Qui-Gon almost smiled at the flash of annoyance in Obi-Wan’s eyes, as if that wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all.  Strangely enough, he understood.  Too late, always too late._

_“He…needs you, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan said, and smiled again, his eyes fever-bright with love, and Qui-Gon felt himself choking back bitter grief as he realized that his love was returned.  Possibly it had been returned for years.   “Like…  I…”  Obi-Wan tried to speak again and could not, and there was blood on his lips.   His lungs, abused and weakened, refused to rise again._

_“Obi-Wan—Obi-Wan!” he cried, feeling the heartbeat under his fingers stutter, feeling Obi-Wan shudder as his body tried in vain to keep breathing, keep living.  Then the struggle ceased, and Obi-Wan went limp in his arms, and night came to his world._

*          *          *          *

_“Much grief I feel in you, Padawan of my Padawan,” Yoda said, gazing up at Qui-Gon.  The old Master looked far more careworn than usual, even worse than the day Dooku had decided to leave the Order._

_Qui-Gon nodded but said nothing.  His eyes felt like he’d tried cleaning them with sandpaper, his throat was raw, and his shoulders ached, as if he’d found himself under the burden of an unbearable weight.  The words were true; there was no need to say more._

_Yoda sighed and paced back and forth in the antechamber to the great room the Council had been granted.  The other members, all eleven, were waiting for them, because Yoda had chosen to speak with Qui-Gon alone, first.  “Still plan to take the boy as your Padawan, do you?”_

_He nodded again, which seemed to frustrate Yoda._

_“The Chosen One the boy may be, Qui-Gon, but matters, that does not.”  Yoda stared out of the window, facing away from Qui-Gon as he stilled his footsteps.  “Dangerous he still could be, but the danger has become…less.  Still, his training…  Certain, you are, that do this you can?”_

_Qui-Gon managed a terse smile.  “I think we’ll manage.”  Despite everything, he had a bond with Anakin already, a spontaneous creation of the Force that rivaled his lost connection to Obi-Wan.  Anakin kept tiptoeing around it mentally, as if afraid of hurting Qui-Gon with his very presence, unsure of his actions in the face of his new Master’s grief.  “Besides, Obi-Wan practically ordered me to do so, Master Yoda.  If it is the last thing, the only thing, I can do for my Padawan, then I will honor his words.”_

_Yoda nodded, turning to face him once more.  “Your Padawan, Skywalker will be.  Need each other, you will.”  His ears and head lowering, Yoda sighed once more.  “Miss him, I will.”_

_“As will I, Master,” Qui-Gon said in a whisper.  “More than I ever imagined.”_

*          *          *          *

_He helped the local Naboo priests prepare Obi-Wan’s body, making sure each fold of cloth was perfect, that everything that could be pristine, would be.  He unwound the fraying Padawan braid, running his fingers through the soft threads of auburn that marked all their years together.  Then he rebraided it by touch and memory, blinded by grief, putting the beads and ties in their proper places._

_The pyre, though, he would not, could not light.  That task he gave to Yoda, who accepted it with solemn eyes.  He waited for that moment with Anakin at his side.  The boy was wrapped in Qui-Gon’s own robe, chilled from the Naboo night, and was staring at the pyre in silence._

_Instead of the simple words Qui-Gon expected, Yoda climbed up so that he stood at the edge of the stone bier, his hands held together before him.  “A burning flame we have lost.  Rarely has my heart been this heavy, my duty been this difficult.”  Yoda blinked a few times, his eyes bright in the light of the surrounding torches.  “A loss this is, not just for Master Qui-Gon, but for all Jedi._

_“Over eight hundred years have I trained Jedi.  In all of that time, no more than three Padawans have there been who were Knighted after their deaths.  Four, there now are.”_

_Qui-Gon gasped, turning startled eyes to the rest of the assembled Council.  They gazed back at him, and more than one set of eyes was filled with shared grief.  There had been no mention of this over the past few days, no hint that they would even consider bestowing this last possible honor upon his Padawan.  Unthinkingly he put his arm around Anakin, pulling him close, desperate for contact—any contact.  Anakin touched him through their fledgling bond, offering wordless, child-like comfort._

_Yoda wasn’t finished.  “Fought, this young Padawan did, against an ancient enemy, and in his heart there was no fear.  In defense of others, he acted, for those who stand here today, and for those who may stand with us tomorrow.  A Padawan we will consign to the flames, but it is Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi that we will remember.”_

_He was beckoned forward, and Qui-Gon followed the ancient Master’s instructions with heavy steps, accepting the tiny, silver knife from the clawed green hand.  He severed the rebound braid above the uppermost tie, and for a moment he held it in his hands, feeling the silk of Obi-Wan’s hair slide through his fingers._

_Not fair, not_ right _, he raged in his mind, careful not to allow any of that storm to touch his bond with Anakin, or to show on his face.  This was not the Knighting he’d wanted for this man, who’d earned it through kindness, word, and deed, over and over again._

 _Qui-Gon wrapped the long auburn braid around Obi-Wan’s cold, folded hands.  “This is yours,” he said, not even needing to think about it.  Perhaps Obi-Wan might have given it to him, but that was not his decision to make, and thus it would stay.  “You earned it,” he whispered._ Oh, love, you more than earned it, _he thought, and stepped back, nodding to Yoda._

_Yoda bowed his head, taking the torch from Mace’s hand when it was offered.  “Those gathered here to mourn with us: grieve not, for there is no death.  There is the Force.”_

**Sublimation**

 

Obi-Wan launched himself backwards, trying to escape and could not as ten years of isolation and grief and anger and loss and desolation poured through his psyche.  Qui-Gon’s thoughts of ending his life dominated him: of sliding into the Force with a whisper of will and stilled heart, the reckless actions, pursued without consideration of consequence, of making sure Yoda understood that Anakin was his if he should fall.  Restraint had been his watchword, Anakin’s presence in his life and a vague thought to his duty to the Order had kept him from following Obi-Wan into the Force.  _Broken, everything was shattered, and he had so little reason to stay…_

He might have screamed, trying to purge what he would now always carry—the pain he had inflicted, all unknowingly, on the one he loved.

Obi-Wan hit a wall and fell to the floor, his hands clasping his head, and realized that he could not draw breath.  He fought for it, struggled to make his lungs take in air. _Jeimor!_ he called in a panic, and then lost even that.  _can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t_ breathe!

Then Qui-Gon was there, recognizable by scent and touch as warm lips pressed against his.  Air was forced into his lungs, and his body soaked it up greedily, as if it was a substance that was vital to his existence once more.  He gasped for breath, grateful when it came again to him without help.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” he tried to say, and then Qui-Gon’s lips were upon him again in a fierce, demanding kiss.

Obi-Wan parted his lips and a tongue darted inside, tasting and seeking.  He groaned into Qui-Gon’s mouth, every nerve in his body lighting up as it recognized what was being asked of it.  Breath and skin and scent and touch, all encompassing, the sum of existence and something that should have never touched him again.  The pulse of life beat against him, warm and overwhelming, and he _wanted._

Obi-Wan took a breath; he should not ever have this again.  He was dead, a ghost of solid flesh, and all too soon he would not even be that. 

His resolve lasted for an entire two seconds before there was a hot hand on his crotch, palming his already erect cock through his leggings, and he decided that he didn’t _care_.  He growled and pushed back, claiming Qui-Gon’s mouth for his own this time as he tried to undo the belt that was in his blasted way.  The belt dropped and he was untangling Qui-Gon’s sash and tabards and pulling tunics off with Qui-Gon’s help. 

He looked up and found Qui-Gon’s eyes upon him, deep and dark with a near-feral need, and Obi-Wan found himself shaking under that gaze.  “Qui-Gon…you know I’m not here forever,” he said, his voice raw whisper.

Qui-Gon smiled and cupped Obi-Wan’s face with his hands.  “But you’re here in _this_ moment,” he murmured.  “You’re here, with me.  Do I need to reiterate the old lesson once more?”

“Maybe I need to learn by example,” Obi-Wan said, and found himself shoved against the lockers, Qui-Gon pressed against him.  Skin slid along skin, and Obi-Wan threw his arms back against the rough edges of the lockers, reveling in the contrast of cold steel against his back and Qui-Gon’s teeth at his neck, nipping him and then laving the bite with his tongue.  Obi-Wan shivered and thrust his hands into the beautiful silver mass of Qui-Gon’s hair, pulling his head back up for another searing kiss.

Qui-Gon moaned against his lips, a long, low sound that went straight to his cock.  Then Qui-Gon picked him up, pinning him against the lockers so that their hips rested together, and Obi-Wan reached down and grabbed the hard line of a very evident erection.

 “Oh, gods,” Qui-Gon hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.  “Do you know…how long I’ve wished…how I _dreamed—_ ”

Obi-Wan kissed him again to cut off the flow of words, tugging the older man’s trousers down.  He took the magnificent, heavy, leaking cock in his hand, pleased by length and girth, and squeezed his fingers around it.

Qui-Gon pressed his face into Obi-Wan’s neck, moaning again, and Obi-Wan slid his hand up and down that long shaft, rubbing his thumb underneath the sensitive head.  “I always wanted to do this,” he confided, almost breathless himself from sensation and from what he could feel from Qui-Gon, like it was no effort at all to sense the effect he was having on the man.  “I wanted to touch you and feel you, watch you respond, I wanted so much to love you…”

 

“Gods!” Qui-Gon shouted, and grabbed Obi-Wan’s hand, shoving it back up against the locker and pinning it in place.  He tugged down Obi-Wan’s leggings and rocked his hips.  Their cocks slid together, slick with forming sweat and pre-cum, and Obi-Wan panted for breath, already almost undone from the dual onslaught of sensation.

“Oh, Force!  Qui-Gon, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you,” he said in a rush, unable to thrust back, captive to Qui-Gon’s desire and utterly pleased with that fact. 

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispered, and it only took two more thrusts before he was coming in shaking, sharp jerks of his hips and bathing them both in warmth.

Obi-Wan gasped, his mouth falling open but no sound emerging from his throat, feeling Qui-Gon’s intensity sunburst his own.  It was like a star going nova, one of the most intense orgasms he’d ever felt in his life, and he could have stayed in that warmth forever.

Qui-Gon let him back down onto his feet gently, and Obi-Wan wrapped his arms around the larger man, resting his forehead against the hot flesh of Qui-Gon’s chest.  He was not surprised to find that his face was wet with tears. 

“Well,” he managed to say after a moment, trying to sound cheerful.  “If I didn’t need a shower before, I certainly do now.”

Qui-Gon chuckled.  “I really did miss your abominable sense of humor.”

“Even the puns?” Obi-Wan couldn’t resist asking.

“Especially those,” Qui-Gon said, and Obi-Wan raised his head to look at him, just to see if he was serious.

He was.  There were wet lines on his face where tears had fallen from his eyes.  Qui-Gon was also bearing smears of white dust on his nose and cheeks.  “What’s this on your face?” Obi-Wan asked, reaching up to touch one of the white spots on his cheek.

“It’s from what’s on your face, actually,” Qui-Gon said, and there must have been something in Obi-Wan’s eyes, because Qui-Gon frowned.  “You don’t know?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, bewildered.  “What’s on my face, Qui-Gon?”

Qui-Gon started opening lockers until he found one with a mirror stuck to the inside of the door.  “Look,” he said.  “It was there the first day I saw you.”

Obi-Wan gazed into the mirror, confused by the image reflected back to him.  It took him a moment to recognize his own features, buried as they were by black and gray dust—not white, as he’d thought.  All of his face, even his neck, was covered in the light gray dust.  There was a slight smear of black dust around his lips, and his lips themselves were black, too, with nothing to suggest he hadn’t just exchanged many wet kisses with someone.  The rest of the black was concentrated around his eyes, making their blue-green color stand out in sharp relief.  Broad strokes of black lines graced his cheeks.  Wing-pattern, crow-pattern.  He bore an echo of Jeimor’s wings on his face.  “What is this?” he asked again, and reached up and ran his fingers across his cheek, right over the wing pattern.  The dust came off on his fingers, but the pattern did not smear.  Disconcerting.

Obi-Wan looked at his fingertips, rubbing his thumb over the dust as he pondered the silky, slightly greasy texture, and his stomach lurched as he realized what it was.  Not dust, not dust at all.

“What?” Qui-Gon asked.

“Not dust,” he repeated, feeling his heart thud painfully against his ribcage.  Not dust.  “It’s ash,” he whispered, and then bolted for the showers. 

He turned the first shower’s water tap on full blast and jumped into the spray, shrieking as ice-cold water struck his skin before scrubbing with both hands at his face.  By the time the water finally began to heat up, he felt like he’d scrubbed his skin raw.  “Is it off?”

Qui-Gon turned him around in the shower, having sensibly finished taking off his clothes before getting wet.  He was looking at Obi-Wan in concern, but then he took Obi-Wan’s hands away from his face and pressed a kiss against Obi-Wan’s forehead.  “It’s gone, Obi-Wan.  Stop trying to peel your face off, please.”

Obi-Wan nodded, trying to still the tremors in his hands, and was grateful when Qui-Gon wrapped his arms around him.  “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I want the reminder,” he muttered.

“Nor I,” Qui-Gon admitted, resting his chin on Obi-Wan’s head.  “Though I daresay it will be back.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan breathed, burying his face against Qui-Gon’s smooth chest and sighing.  It would be back, because it was who he was, who he’d asked to become.  It was sort of stupid to run from that now.  He focused on breathing, in and out, a meditation without intent, and they both stood under the hot spray for long minutes without moving.  The blood that had dried in his hair, his own blood, ran in pink rivulets down his skin. 

Before he knew it he was laughing.

“What?” Qui-Gon asked again, nuzzling his ear.  “What’s so funny?”

“Mace said ‘restored,’” Obi-Wan said, and snickered again.  “It didn’t even occur to me that he really meant it.  By the way, this was probably the best Knighting gift, ever.”

Qui-Gon hugged him so hard it made his ribs ache.  “And I am so glad to be able to give it to you.”

 

_It appears to me impossible that I should cease to exist, or that this active, restless spirit, equally alive to joy and sorrow,_

_should be only organized dust._  
_-Mary Wollstonecraft_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First manip is mine; chapter art provided by Cajolerisms.


	4. Book Four - Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will follow you always, each path a danger trod; all of these things are worthy of enduring, to feel your presence as if it be sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, 2011

  _I often think that the night is more alive and_

 _more richly colored than the day._  
_-Vincent Van Gogh_

 

****   


 

The burst of frenetic energy Obi-Wan had displayed was gone before the last drops of water from the shower could dry on his skin.  Some part of Qui-Gon was, quite honestly, disturbed and upset and nervous.  To have Obi-Wan in his life again was literally a dream come true, but an Avatar?  Despite their frantic coupling, when he’d been able to feel Obi-Wan’s desire like it was his own, Qui-Gon’s mind was still reeling.  He had questions that demanded answers, and his emotional state was far from serene.  However, the rest of Qui-Gon was content to live in the moment.  One step at a time, one minute at a time.  That was the way forward, and he would be damned if he would give up the chance that Fate had granted him.

His questions would have to wait, as even an Avatar had limits.  When Qui-Gon mentioned that there was crew quarters empty and available for sleeping in, Obi-Wan had taken one look at the distance left to walk and snorted his amusement before striding wearily up the Temple ship’s ramp instead.  Without hesitation, Qui-Gon followed. 

The droids who had tossed the ship couldn’t have put together a better nest for their rest if the tin-headed things had tried.  The bunks were next to useless, but lying on their piled-up clothing, Obi-Wan’s skin pressed against his own, was one of the most comfortable experiences of his existence.  Obi-Wan was asleep the moment they were settled together, his head tucked under Qui-Gon’s chin; after a few moments of breathing in the clean scent of Obi-Wan’s hair and skin, Qui-Gon was, too.

Qui-Gon didn’t know how much later it was when the body next to his own stirred and began to move away, but he was awake enough to remember that he didn’t want that warmth to go.  He tightened his arm around Obi-Wan’s waist and grumbled.

“I’ll stay, then,” Obi-Wan replied, his voice laced with teasing amusement and affection.

The next time he awoke it was slow and gradual, a rare privilege in his life.  He felt well-rested, a first in many years, and as he stretched his legs he became aware that he was alone.  “Ben?”

 _I’m here,_ was the reply.  _On the bridge, with Anakin and Asa._

Qui-Gon dressed quickly in clothes that hadn’t been ocean-drenched, stopping only long enough to gulp down a mug of the bitter tea from the ship’s galley.  By the time he made it to the bridge, he was treated to the sight of Anakin and Obi-Wan facing off against each other, white lightsaber crossed with blue.  The woman that Obi-Wan kept calling Asa, Ventress, was sitting on the command chair on the observation platform above them, watching their moves with sharp, intelligent eyes.  She was still swirling gray in the Force, no longer Darkened, and the lack of Dark power made her seem small and child-like. 

Qui-Gon shook his head, feeling newfound sympathy for her as he stepped closer.  Seventeen years old and without a Master—or _any_ kind of Jedi influence—for the last two.  No wonder the girl had almost been swallowed whole by the Dark Side.

“May I join you?” he asked, and Ventress raised startled, pale blue eyes to look up at him.

“I—yes,” she said.  “Please,” she added a moment later, as if long unused to the idea of manners.   She waved to the seat next to hers before clasping her hands on her lap, her fingers twisted together nervously.

“Thank you.”  He noticed her edginess but said nothing, only settling onto the chair, his eyes fixed on the practice duel below.  Even a blind man would have picked up on the wounded-animal behavior that Ventress was displaying, but Qui-Gon had long experience with such things.  Companionable silence often worked when words never would. 

He could tell by the sweat that soaked Anakin’s hair that the duel had been going on for some time, but there was no hint of a strain on Obi-Wan’s face.  In fact, he looked like he was having a blast, the wry grin so familiar that it made Qui-Gon’s heart twist in his chest.  How many times had he faced his Padawan on a practice mat, the younger man wearing just such an expression?

“You know, for someone who is balls-up _bad_ at the Jar’Kai, you’re driving me nuts!” Anakin complained, after the two had exchanged a flurry of blows that gained neither one the upper hand.

“For all you know, that’s my intent,” Obi-Wan replied, his grin widening.  “How long can I make you dance before you lose your temper and do something foolish?”

Anakin frowned.  “If I had two blades, you’d already be down, Ben.”

Obi-Wan skipped backwards as Anakin advanced, teasing and leading the young Padawan on.  “But you don’t—” Obi-Wan ducked and danced aside—“have two blades, do you?”

 _Oh, yes,_ Qui-Gon thought, watching the exchange.  Obi-Wan had the confidence of the Knight he’d never had the chance to be in life, no doubt honed by his nightly journeys through Coruscant’s mid- and lower levels.  It was wonderful to see, and left him fighting the old grief once more, because all too soon he would be gone again.

 _Follow your own damn advice, you old fool,_ Qui-Gon told himself sternly.  He forced himself to observe his current Padawan, whose eyes had gone flat, a clear sign that Anakin was considering losing his temper.  After years of training it was difficult to rouse, but that particular demon was by no-means tamed. 

Despite that, however, it was easy to see that Obi-Wan and Anakin were well-matched in skill and strength.  Obi-Wan was used to fighting a taller opponent; Anakin was used to trying to keep up with Siri Tachi’s Padawan, Ferus Olin, who was a good two inches shorter than Obi-Wan.  It was in tactics and patience that Obi-Wan had the upper hand, and it showed.  Anakin relied on technique to the point where he forgot to incorporate his surroundings, or to consider the psychological perspective any battle contained.  Qui-Gon figured that in another three minutes, the duel would be over, and Anakin would likely be repeating the meditation on patience. 

The console in front of Asajj Ventress began chiming an alarm, and the young woman glared at it.  “Obi-Wan,” she said, before turning it off.  “Two minutes before hyperspace reversal.  And you should be sitting here at that point instead of me,” she continued, the barest hint of a smile on her pale face.

“Absolutely,” Obi-Wan agreed, both he and Anakin shutting down their lightsabers.  “Another time, Anakin?” he suggested.

“Count on it,” Anakin agreed, grinning. 

Qui-Gon, meanwhile, was frowning at the display on his own console.  “I slept for two days?” he asked, stunned to realize that they were already in Coruscant space.

“Yeah, Master,” Anakin said, walking up the ramp with Obi-Wan before taking a seat at the weapons station.  “Ben and I had entire conversations over your head, and you didn’t so much as twitch.”

“I think you needed the rest,” Obi-Wan said, taking the seat next to him as Ventress stood up, retreating to the rear of the bridge.  There was a slightly reproachful look in his gaze.  Obi-Wan would understand, now, why such a rest might have been necessary. 

 _I’m sorry,_ Qui-Gon sent.  There was no bond between them, nothing that he could feel, but he knew that his words would be heard, just as he had heard Obi-Wan’s upon waking.

 _That makes two of us,_ Obi-Wan replied, smiling, before turning his attention back to the console.  The second alarm didn’t even have a chance to blare before the Confederate corvette dropped out of hyperspace, guided by Obi-Wan’s expert hand.  The moment the stars became single white points, the comm came alive, filled with the deep, harsh voice of one of Fett’s many cloned soldiers.  “Confederate Vessel _Enforcer_ , you are cleared for immediate approach and landing on Platform Seventy-five Alpha-Jay.  Try not to deviate from our approved course, and we’ll try not to shoot you down.”

Obi-Wan scowled at the comm before responding.  “Thank you very much for such vast assurance.  Approaching Platform Seventy-five Alpha-Jay, as planned.”

“Acknowledged, Vessel _Enforcer_.  Be advised that all prisoners will be transferred over to the custody of the Republic military.”

“Acknowledged,” Obi-Wan replied, and then cut the comm.  “Like hell you’re getting Asa,” he growled.  “Asa is a Jedi matter, and you don’t have authority over us, you arrogant, self-righteous bastards.”

“I take it you don’t like our new military?” Anakin asked lightly.  Both he and Qui-Gon had had first-hand experience with Jango Fett, and neither of them was in a hurry to embrace thousands of his clones with open arms. 

“No,” Obi-Wan said, narrowing his eyes.  “They keep shooting me.  Don’t worry, Asa,” he said, half-turning in his seat to reassure the woman.  “You’re coming back to the Temple with us.”

“I hope so,” Ventress murmured, drawing her cloak forward and wrapping it around herself.  “I do not think your Republic will be very fond of me.”

Anakin left the weapons station to stand behind Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s chairs.  “Are you sure we’ll be able to keep her away from the military?”

“Yes, even if I have to mind-trick the entire lot.  They’ll get their hands on Asa over my dead body,” Obi-Wan said cheerfully.

Qui-Gon paused, turning his head to stare at Obi-Wan.  “That was horrible.”

Obi-Wan smiled.  “You said you’d missed the puns.”

“I take it back.”

 

_Excess of grief for the dead is madness;_

_for it is an injury to the living, and the dead know it not._

_-Xenophon_

 

“We send you out to stop a potential ally of the Sith,” Mace said, looking at Obi-Wan, then at Qui-Gon and Anakin.  It was a full Council that had greeted them, prompted by their unusual return.  “You come back to us with a captured Confederate ship, a slew of political prisoners, and a…”

“Padawan,” Obi-Wan supplied helpfully, when Mace turned his concerned gaze to Asajj Ventress. 

Agen Kolar, the Master appointed to replace Eeth Koth, snorted his opinion of that.  “The only proof we have on her status as a Padawan to Ky Narec is her word.”

“And my word means nothing, then?” Obi-Wan asked, giving the newest Council member a narrow look.

“You’re very young, Knight Lars,” Master Kolar replied, his tone just shy of condescending.  If his words were meant to be reassuring, they failed miserably. 

Maybe it was from being dead.  Maybe it was because he was a Knight, and had no reason to fear the Council any longer.  Either way, Master Agen Kolar irritated the hell out of Obi-Wan.  “Tell you what:  You go and ask Ky Narec about her training.  Let me know how that goes, hmm?”

Qui-Gon’s expression didn’t change, but Obi-Wan could feel the man’s amusement as easily as he could breathe.  Anakin’s lower lip disappeared as the Padawan bit down on it.  Yoda treated Obi-Wan to a look that clearly told him that the old Master approved, even if he could never voice such an opinion. 

Kolar smiled.  “I can’t speak to the dead, Knight Lars, and the dead don’t speak to us.  Such a thing is not possible.”

As if they were part of one body, Obi-Wan, Anakin, Qui-Gon, and all the members of the Council of Six turned to stare at Agen Kolar.  Even Asa looked bemused. 

“What?” the Zabrak Master snapped.

“Nothing,” Obi-Wan said, though it took every single bit of his training to maintain an innocent look.  Anakin was having no such luck.  He had resorted to ducking his head, and was studying the floor with bright-eyed intensity.  “Debate all you like; it won’t change the truth.  This is Asajj Ventress of Rattatak, Padawan to Knight Ky Narec from the age of ten until his death when she was fifteen Standard.  She is also currently the Warlord of Rattatak, and thus a valuable ally, regardless of what this Council thinks of her training.”

Depa Billaba stood up, walking over to stand in front of Asa, who had planted herself firmly at Obi-Wan’s side upon entering the Council chamber.  “Do you know who I am?” the soft-voiced woman asked.  Asa shook her head.  “I am Master Depa Billaba.  Your Master, Ky, was my Padawan.”

Asa’s eyes went wide, shimmering with the faint hint of tears.  “Oh,” she whispered.  “You’re her.  Master would tell me about you, sometimes.  He said you were very kind to him, even when he didn’t deserve it.”

“Ky always gave himself far too little credit,” Depa agreed sadly.  “He went missing years ago, but when I searched for him, I could never pinpoint his exact location.  For a long time, I contented myself with the fact that my Padawan still lived.  Then, one day, I felt his passing in the Force, and have lived with a great deal of regret since then.  I would like it very much if you could tell me about Ky’s last years with you, Asajj.”

Asa nodded, another one of her faint smiles appearing on her face.  “I would be honored to, Master Billaba,” she said, though she did take a quick look at Obi-Wan.  He nodded, letting her know of her continued safety with the simple movement.  Asa and Master Billaba left together, and before the doors closed behind them he saw Asa reach out and take the older woman’s hand.

“The matter of Ventress’s training is not a pressing matter, and as Knight Lars pointed out, she is still a valuable ally to have gained,” Mace said, pinning Kolar with a glare when the other Master seemed to want to speak further.  “Master Yoda and I will speak to Master Billaba after she has spent time evaluating Ventress, and we will discuss the matter again at that time.  The military has taken possession of the Confederate vessel.” Mace’s eyes flashed with irritation.  A decade ago, the ship would have been a Jedi acquisition, Obi-Wan knew, but thanks to the Chancellor’s emergency powers, and the military, such an idea was a thing of the past. 

Yoda smiled at Obi-Wan, a hint of mischief in his expression.  “A mission you have shared, and good work you have done.  Tolerate Master Qui-Gon and his Padawan you can, Ben?”

Obi-Wan looked at Qui-Gon out of the corner of his eye, fighting the urge to smile.  “Yes, Master Yoda, I do believe they can be tolerated.”

 “And you, Master Qui-Gon?  Work with Ben Lars, you can?”

Qui-Gon gave Obi-Wan a similar look, but did not bother hiding his smile.  “If I must,” he said, with the air of the long-suffering.

“Hmph,” Yoda said, and chuckled.  “Fooling me, you two are not.  Home you should go.  Dismissed you are,” he said, waving his gimer stick at them.

“We’ll talk again later,” Mace confirmed.  “May the Force be with you.”

**Displacement**

 

It was Anakin who spoke first, after they left the chamber and found an unoccupied section of hallway.  A glass wall that stretched from floor to ceiling revealed an evening view of Coruscant, the sky a deep reddish-orange as the sun set for the day.  “Did we just get the evening off?”

Qui-Gon snorted, giving his Padawan an amused look.  “There’s no such thing.”

“Mm,” Obi-Wan agreed, all of his attention on the window and its view of the skyline.  The Senate rotunda was visible in the distance, surrounded by traffic as Senate and staff tried to go home for the day.  Jeimor cocked his head and shifted his feet, muttering under his breath.

“I see you,” Obi-Wan whispered, and it was like great black wings fluttered, temporarily veiling the sun.  Qui-Gon’s skin broke out in gooseflesh at the sensation, at the sudden perception of loss of light.

“Creep-y,” Anakin murmured, wide-eyed as he took in Obi-Wan’s distant stare.  “Is it the Sith?”

Obi-Wan nodded, bringing his right hand up and resting his palm on the glass.  “He’s looking this way, but he doesn’t know why.”

“Good,” Qui-Gon found himself saying, his voice fierce.  “The less he realizes, the better our chances.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agreed, dropping his hand and turning.  He and Qui-Gon stared at each other; Obi-Wan was less Jedi and far more Avatar at that moment:  ethereal, otherworldly. 

Then Obi-Wan smiled and glanced at Anakin, and the sensation vanished.  “Let’s go see your wife, Padawan Skywalker.”

Anakin sighed.  “What’s the point of it being a secret if everyone knows?”  He smiled back.  “Sure, why not.  What for?”

“Time for that talk you’ve been putting off,” Obi-Wan said, his expression turning serious.  “Time to discuss Tatooine with your Master.”

Anakin’s smile didn’t fade so much as it collapsed.  “Tatooine?  Now?” Anakin whispered, his shoulders dropping, like he was attempting to curl in on himself.  Qui-Gon stared at them both, curious but confused by the sudden change to such an obscure topic.

“Yep!” Obi-Wan nodded, hooking his right arm though Anakin’s left in classic escort position.  “Right now.” 

 

_Whoso neglects learning in his youth,_

_loses the past and is dead for the future._

_-Euripides_

 

The Senator of Naboo hugged Anakin the moment he stepped off of the lift.  “I heard about Bestine IV,” Padmé said, and then embraced Qui-Gon as well.  “I’m glad you’re both all right.”

Then she noticed Obi-Wan, who’d been leaning casually against the lift wall, and raised an eyebrow.  “Welcome back, Ben,” she said, and noticed Anakin’s sheepish look.  “I take it you told them?”

“It was rather difficult to avoid, being as they witnessed me take a shot to the head.  Just like someone _else_ managed to do,” he continued as he stepped off the lift, glaring at Captain Typho.

The security chief for the Naboo contingent winced.  “I _said_ I was sorry, Knight Lars.  Between you, that bird, and Aurra Sing, it was difficult trying to figure out which of you was the threat.”

“Next time, shoot the known bounty hunter first,” Obi-Wan retorted.

“Aurra Sing was after _you_?” Anakin whispered, and enveloped his wife in another hug.  “And you decided not to mention this why?”

“Because I have an overprotective Jedi husband who would have tried neglecting his duty,” Padmé retorted, leaning back to glare up at Anakin.  “I was _fine,_ Ani.”

Captain Typho was still eying Obi-Wan.  Jeimor, on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, gave the security captain a sardonic look and pointedly shook his head.  It was the last straw for Typho: “Milady, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave the four of you alone to speak privately.”

“That’s a great idea!” Obi-Wan agreed, smiling at Typho, who managed to turn a shade paler than he already had.  “You look like you could use some tea.”

“Go ahead, Captain,” Padmé said, nodding, and Typho wasted no time in departing.  “You make him nervous,” she continued lightly, once the man had gone.

Obi-Wan shrugged.  “Senator Amidala, I make _everyone_ nervous.”

Qui-Gon took in the pane of glass in the Senator’s floor to ceiling view of Coruscant’s skyline.  There were new sensors on each corner, and the glass was even thicker than before.  “I take it you’re one of our mysterious allies on the Loyalist’s Committee.”

Padmé nodded, shedding her formal overdress and draping it over one of the chairs before she sat down in it.  “As far as anyone knows, there is no such group, and yet the bounty hunters come back,” she said, blowing out an impatient breath. 

“I don’t get it.  What is with this group, and who’s in it?” Anakin asked, settling down one of the apartment’s richly upholstered couches, directly across from the wife he wasn’t yet supposed to have.  Qui-Gon sighed; Anakin’s marriage had calmed his Padawan’s nerves as nothing else had been able to.  For that, if for no other reason, he would gladly keep his knowledge of their relationship from Council ears.

“That can wait,” Obi-Wan said, interrupting any further questions.  “We’re here for you, first, Anakin Skywalker, and it must be now.”

Anakin blinked for a moment, as if thrown by the statement, and then his expression tightened, became a grim mask.  “All…all right.”

He began to speak, hesitant, and when he faltered, Padmé took up the tale, relating their first two days together on Naboo, and the nightmares that had plagued Anakin from the time they departed Coruscant until that final morning in the lake house.  The Padawan had been torn between duty and what the Force had been screaming at him; Padmé had solved the dilemma by pointing out that no one was likely to be looking for Senator Amidala on Tatooine.  The similarities to the time the three of them had spent together on Tatooine over a decade ago did not escape Qui-Gon’s notice.  Then the tale of the search began, and Qui-Gon could only listen in growing horror.

“I killed every living thing in my path,” Anakin said at last, his voice soft.  His blue eyes were focused on nothing, his expression slack, but his hands were clenched into tight fists.  “I didn’t even—I didn’t even realize it until later, when Mom was home and I found myself in the garage.  I could barely think beyond knowing that the local healer said she was going to be okay.  I just couldn’t stop thinking that if I’d waited one more day, if we hadn’t left Naboo _right then_ , if I’d ignored the dreams and kept waiting and wondering—”

Qui-Gon watched, his heart aching for his Padawan, for the truth that had to be spoken.  His Padawan had almost Fallen, had almost become something worse than Xanatos had ever conceived of being, and he’d had no idea.  Had felt nothing of it.  Nothing.

“I just—it started coming back, in flashes, that I’d killed any Tusken who’d tried to block my way out of camp.  It didn’t matter if they were armed or not.  I wasn’t seeing weapons anymore, anyway.  They were just… obstacles.  Like they were nothing.”  Anakin took a shaky breath.  “Padmé, she came downstairs and started talking to me, trying to make me respond.”

“He was just wandering around like an automaton,” Padmé said softly.  She was watching him with worried, sympathetic eyes.  Her knees were drawn up, her arms wrapped around her legs, the long hem of her evening gown hiding her feet from view.  “I knew he went into the desert intent on finding Shmi, but when he came back it was like…  At first, it was like he hadn’t come back at all.

Obi-Wan was perched on one of the Senator’s chairs, Jeimor still on his shoulder.  In the dim evening light, accented by the flickering candles in the Senator’s apartment, Obi-Wan seemed to be watching Anakin with eyes that were almost as amber as any crow’s.  “I’ve seen that before,” he murmured, glancing at Qui-Gon.   

Qui-Gon nodded faintly; recovering from Tahl’s loss had been a long, dark road, fraught with moments like these.  Tahl, his last surviving childhood friend, tortured to death so that damned pirate could try out the effects of his new drugs.  Qui-Gon imagined that losing a parent to torture would feel far worse, be far more temping path to Darkness.  Shmi had lived, and still her son had almost lost himself.

“As I started talking to her, little by little, I remembered feeling them die.”  Anakin closed his eyes, tears running freely down his cheeks.  “I orphaned most of the tribe’s children.  I’m just glad…glad that I didn’t hurt them, too.  Because I don’t think I would have noticed if I had.  Not until it was too late.”

“And then what happened?” Qui-Gon asked gently, hating to press, needing to know. 

“And then I burst into tears, right in front of her,” Anakin said, and sniffed hard before wiping his eyes.  “I couldn’t believe it, but I couldn’t forget it!  It was…  Oh, Master, I wish you had been there,” he added, glancing beseechingly at Qui-Gon.  No recrimination in his gaze, but gods, it made Qui-Gon’s heart ache with guilt regardless. 

“I really don’t know what I would have—Padmé kept me from losing my mind,” Anakin said, glancing across the room at his wife, who smiled at him.  “If she hadn’t been there, I don’t know.  Things would have been bad.  I pulled myself together with her help, and when we received your emergency call from Geonosis I more or less had my head on straight again.  But I should have spoken to you about this before now—and I wanted to!  It just…  It stopped seeming as important.”

Obi-Wan jerked his head in Anakin’s direction, eyes narrowed.  “What do you mean?”

Anakin blinked, taken aback by the sudden interest.  “I—I don’t know, really.  Padmé wanted me to discuss it with Master Qui-Gon, no matter what was going on with the Separatists.  I’d agree with her; I really did want to talk to you about it, Master,” he said, giving Qui-Gon a worried, guilty look.  “I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant or anything, but I didn’t want—I don’t want to ever do anything like that again.”  He shivered.  “But then something would happen, or we’d be assigned another dispute mission, and it just didn’t seem like I should bring up Tatooine at all.”

Obi-Wan dropped down from the chair he’d been abusing and walked across the room.  The energy coming from him at that moment was a near-tangible thing, once again more Avatar than Jedi Knight.  “Tell me something, Anakin.  Were you on Coruscant when you lost interest in talking about Tatooine?”

Anakin opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again, looking baffled.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I think so.”

“Every time?” Obi-Wan pressed, close enough that he was almost nose to nose with Anakin.

Anakin half-shut his eyes and took a deep breath, as if pulling in the power that Obi-Wan was broadcasting in that moment.  When he opened his eyes again, there was certainty where none had been before.  “Every time.”

“Damn,” Obi-Wan muttered, and stalked over to Padmé’s massive window.  Jeimor left Obi-Wan’s shoulder, landing awkwardly on the back of the couch before folding his wings.  With Padmé’s apartment located in the heart of the Senate District, the Senate Dome dominated the scene like an overbearing jewel, brightening Coruscant’s evening with its massive lights.

Qui-Gon’s skin had broken out in goose bumps again, but there was a roiling surge of protective anger forming in his belly.  “No fucking Sith Lord is going to lay a _hand_ on my Padawan!” he snarled.  Not again.  Not by death or by Darkness, by the Force!

Anakin went wide-eyed at Qui-Gon’s harsh tone.  “Master, that’s not going to happen,” he said, visibly distressed but trying to reassure him.

“No, it isn’t, and you’ve learned exactly why,” Qui-Gon answered; Anakin flushed but continued to meet his Master’s eyes.  “Learn the lesson well, Padawan.  The worst Darkness to face is what we carry inside ourselves.  You’ve seen it, now, and knowing of it, you can learn to overcome it.”

“Wise counsel,” Padmé murmured.

Obi-Wan snorted out an amused laugh.  “ _True_ counsel,” he countered.

Anakin managed a lopsided smile.  “So what was yours, Obi-Wan?  Your internal battle?”

“Fear,” Obi-Wan said.  His eyes were focused on the Senate District, but his attention was on those who sat behind him.  “For the most part, fear that was conquered early on.  Rather like you, I had the Force screaming in my head that there was something that _must_ happen, that the event happening depended solely upon me.  My point of view at the time was that there was very little I could do to make it happen.  Very frustrating place to be.”

“What was it?” Padmé asked, curious.

“My apprenticeship,” Obi-Wan replied, which made Anakin smile.

“I’ve heard this story,” he said, glancing at Qui-Gon, who lowered his head in acknowledgement.  “Master Qui-Gon’s stubbornness on one side, and the Force on the other.  Talk about being stuck between two insurmountable obstacles.”

Obi-Wan nodded, lips quirking in a quick, wry smile.  “The Force was telling me in no uncertain terms that not only did I need to become a Jedi apprentice, I had to be _his_ apprentice,” he said, tilting his head in Qui-Gon’s direction.  “Qui-Gon, however, was telling me in very certain terms that it wasn’t going to happen.”

“You were refusing to train him?” Padmé looked outraged.  She had gleaned much from Anakin about the Jedi way of life, had learned more while preparing for her service as a Senator on Coruscant, possibly had even gleaned details from her time spent with Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan years ago.  It was quite possible that Padmé Amidala understood what a travesty Qui-Gon Jinn had been in the midst of committing.  “Why?”

Qui-Gon hesitated, thinking over his words carefully to best answer her question without leaving them all telling stories that would last through the night.  “Time will only heal wounds if you allow them to be healed,” he said at last.  “When Obi-Wan and I were first brought together due to the circumstances we found ourselves in, I was… I was not a very nice person,” he admitted.  “Unhealed wounds lead only to bitterness, and it wasn’t until I realized that a twelve year-old boy was acting more the Jedi Knight than I was that I realized how far I had fallen, what kind of person I had become.  I was only seeing part of who he was, just as I was only a shadow of who I had once been.  It wasn’t until he offered to die to save others who were trapped that I started looking beneath the surface—not just Obi-Wan, but of everything around me, things that I had neglected for years.”  He chuckled self-deprecatingly.  “And yet it was still another five years before I truly learned the lesson.  I lost a dear friend, and almost lost Obi-Wan, because of my stubbornness, my refusal to learn.”

“Five years?” Anakin looked both sympathetic and horrified.

“And now that you have learned to recognize the fear that fuels your anger, perhaps it will not take you nearly as long as it did me to learn the lesson,” Qui-Gon said, giving his Padawan a reassuring smile.  “But it does mean you’ll have to make reparations, somehow.”  Anakin’s Trials for Knighthood might be the perfect opportunity for such a thing.  Qui-Gon would have to keep that thought in mind.

“Er—not that I don’t want to, but how do you make amends with the dead?”

Obi-Wan glanced over his shoulder back at them.  “Really?” he said to Anakin, a blatant smirk on his face.

Anakin flinched, but managed to smile back.  “Stupid question, right?”

“Just a bit.”  Obi-Wan turned his attention back to the window and lowered his head.  Coruscant’s city lights were reflected on his face and eyes in chaotic patterns.  “I don’t understand how you all can’t _sense_ it.  It’s so blatant, so Dark.  It’s everywhere!  How can I be the only one who can feel this Sith’s anger?!”

“You, ah, do have a bit of an extra thing going for you there,” Anakin pointed out.

Obi-Wan shook his head, the entire line of his body speaking of impatience.  “The Force is the Force; the rest doesn’t _matter._   How the hell can he hide this from everyone?  From the Council?  From any Jedi?”

“Carefully,” Qui-Gon said, meeting Anakin’s worried gaze.  “One day at a time, one layer at a time. If you build a shield a bit by bit, what is there to notice?”

“Coruscant’s a big place.”  Anakin narrowed his eyes, following his Master’s line of thought.  “The Force does so much on this planet; it fluctuates day to day, minute to minute.  Who’s going to notice one little alteration here, one little change there?”

“Changes over time.  Slowly.  Insidiously,” Qui-Gon said, nodding.

“I guess Sidious is a good Sith name for him, then,” Anakin said, shivering and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sidious?” Obi-Wan half-turned to face them, his eyes washed of almost all color.  “That’s his name?”

Qui-Gon and Anakin both nodded.  Padmé breathed out an annoyed sigh.  She’d defended her home planet from one Sith already.  Finding another Sith-based confrontation looming before her was probably not all that appealing.

“Huh.”  Obi-Wan turned back to the window, but he held up his hands, palms out, and in the window’s reflection Qui-Gon could see him close his eyes.

_“He wants the powerful one.  Skywalker.”_

Qui-Gon jerked in his chair, unnerved by the whisper of sound that sounded like and yet unlike Obi-Wan.  “Ben?”

Obi-Wan didn’t move, didn’t turn.  _“The son of the Suns is the vengeance of the Sith,”_ he whispered, his voice low and thready and not quite his.  And then:  _“This plan of yours has failed, Lord Sidious.  We dare not go against the Jedi.”_

_“Has Queen Amidala signed the treaty?”_

_“—Darth Maul.  He will find your lost ship.”_

_“They’re here, Master.  On Tatooine.  With the boy.  Your Skywalker.”_

Padmé and Anakin stared at each other.  “The Sith knew about me?” Anakin whispered, shocked and pale.

 _“They weren’t supposed to make it back here alive!”_ Fury in the voice that was not-Obi-Wan.

 _“Then you wanted your Chosen One dead, Master?”_   Sarcasm, laced with fear.  Maul the apprentice, little more than a hiss of breath.

_“That young fool is going back to Naboo.  Let the Nemoidians deal with her.  I don’t need a treaty for what must be done.  Kill the Jedi.  Be certain that Master Jinn dies, as the boy has bonded with him already.  This kind of support must not be allowed to stand, not for the Prophecy to succeed.”_

Qui-Gon felt his blood run cold.  He’d been wrong.  Obi-Wan hadn’t Seen his own death.  He’d known that _Qui-Gon himself_ was going to die in that damned duel.

And he’d refused to let it happen.  Had chosen to protect Qui-Gon—even, in a way, to protect Anakin, despite what he’d said of the boy’s potential for danger.

Or had that been part of the manipulation, keeping Qui-Gon angry, distracted, unaware of the careful unraveling of the bond they’d shared for so long?

Gods. 

“What is he doing?” Padmé whispered the question, both of her hands clutched to her breast.

Jeimor tilted his head and let out a raucous caw.  -He’s reading time.-

The three of them turned as one unit to stare at the crow.  “Holy shit, you do talk!” Anakin gasped.

Jeimor sighed and fluffed his feathers, as if Anakin was only restating the obvious.  He turned his head and gave Qui-Gon a stern look.  -Help him.-

When the others did not react, Qui-Gon realized the crow had meant the words only for him.  “What?  Why?”

As if on cue, Obi-Wan spoke again.  _“The currents of the Force have changed.  Events no longer favor the outcome they have whispered of for so long.  This must not stand.  The revenge of the Sith must not be denied_.”  The Sith, his voice a rasp of anger.  Obi-Wan’s eyes were open again, wide and unseeing.

_“So amusing, Lord Sidious.  So many Senators under your sway, and yet they know nothing of your existence.”_

Qui-Gon froze, chilled to hear an approximation of his former Master’s voice.  Reading time.  Obi-Wan was reading things that had been said on Coruscant, or broadcast through its airwaves.  Dooku had belonged to Sidious far longer than Qui-Gon had been willing to believe, even when he’d been confronted by Dooku’s guise of Darth Tyrannus on Geonosis.

-You may keep thinking of Obi-Wan like an Avatar, but he’s still human, and you lot aren’t meant to read fucking _time_ \- the crow retorted.  -Bash him over the head if you have to, but make him stop!-

Without further thought, Qui-Gon launched himself forward.  He tackled Obi-Wan from behind, bouncing both of their bodies off of the nigh-impenetrable glass window before they fell to the floor in a heap.

Obi-Wan groaned aloud before uttering a raspy laugh.  “Thanks.”

Qui-Gon propped himself up on his right elbow, watching as a bruise on Obi-Wan’s temple formed and faded in the time it took for him to take three breaths.  He stared at his former Padawan, Dooku temporarily forgotten as he felt that overwhelming grief all over again.  “You should have told me,” he whispered, not surprised to find his eyes burning with unshed tears.

Obi-Wan rolled over onto his side and took Qui-Gon’s left hand in his own, letting their fingers slide together.  His eyes were somewhere between washed out gray and brilliant blue-green, somewhere between life and death.  “Yes,” he agreed, and there was a wealth of sadness in his expression.  “I should have.  I didn’t think so then, but I certainly know it now.  I should have bashed your shields in to get you to listen to me, and I didn’t.  I honestly don’t remember if I even tried.”

Qui-Gon thought about one quiet moment, when his Padawan’s unsteady fingers had pulled tangled hairs from his beard, tucking them back into place with gentle touches, his eyes not-quite meeting Qui-Gon’s gaze.  He remembered being baffled, being touched by Obi-Wan’s thoughtfulness…and nothing beyond that, his thoughts already on the day to come.  Not once did he take one moment to realize how out-of-character for Obi-Wan the motion had been.  His Padawan did not touch people often, and tender touches were offered even less so.

He wouldn’t have listened.  Oh, gods.  Qui-Gon closed his eyes and buried his face against Obi-Wan’s chest, even as Padmé and Anakin talked above them, trying to find out if they were all right.  He shut it out, too absorbed by the realization that he’d been right all along.  He truly was to blame for Obi-Wan’s death, just not in the way he’d once believed.

“Now _that_ is nonsense,” Obi-Wan muttered, wrapping his arms around Qui-Gon.  “You’re going to absolve me of my own responsibility, then?”

Qui-Gon raised his head to argue the point—as the Master, he _was_ the responsible party—when he saw a reflection of pale blue light in Obi-Wan’s eyes that stopped him cold.  A memory that had been lost returned in a rush, buried under the days of torture and the battle that had followed it.  “He told me,” Qui-Gon said faintly, stunned.

“What?” Anakin asked, as Qui-Gon got up to settle on his knees, offering Obi-Wan a hand up out of habit, relieved when the offer was accepted.  His _Avatairee_ was watching him with pale gray eyes.  “Who?”

“Dooku.  Tyrannus.  Whoever the hell he was at the time,” Qui-Gon said, shaking his head, angry at himself for the lapse.  There was no excuse for that.  _None._  “I’d forgotten.”

_His Master was stalking around the static Force trap, casual in word and motion, as if Qui-Gon wasn’t a prisoner and Dooku not his captor.  Between the posturing and Dooku’s refusal to admit to Fett’s presence, the lies were already thick in the air._

_“It’s a great pity about your Padawan, Qui-Gon,” Dooku said, halting his steps.  “I did always want to say so, but it seems our paths were not destined to cross until now.  I am sorry for your loss.  Obi-Wan was a credit to the Order, and to you.”_

_Qui-Gon managed to incline his head gracefully, though really, his Darkened Master mentioning Obi-Wan made him want to growl at the older man.  “Thank you.”_

_“I wish he were still alive.  We could both use his help right now, I believe.”_

_Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow.  Obi-Wan, help Dooku?  Not with his Padawan’s very strict sense of honor.  The idea was laughable.  “I don’t think Obi-Wan would have had much use for your Separatist cause, Master.”_

_Dooku tilted his head, his expression solemn.  “Do not be too sure, my Padawan.  If he were to hear the truth that I am about to impart to you, I believe he might have thought differently.  You may change your mind, also.”_

_He narrowed his eyes.  Dooku was playing games, and as ever, he was as skilled opponent.  It was so damned difficult to tell when Dooku was lying or being honest!  “What truth?”_

_Dooku smiled, but there was no pleasure in the expression.  “What if I told you that the Republic was under complete control of the Sith?”_

_Qui-Gon’s eyes widened.  That was one statement he did not expect, and, the very thought…!  “I would find your words to be rather suspect,” he managed._

_“You think the Council would have noticed, that your own gifts with the Living Force would have told you such a thing.”  Dooku shook his head.  “The Dark side of the Force has clouded your minds, all of you.  Hundreds of Senators are now under the influence of a Sith Lord who calls himself Sidious.”_

 

_You're not supposed to be so blind with patriotism that you can't face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who says it._

_-Malcolm X_

 

Sidious, Lord of the Sith.  A presence so Dark it had invoked the presence of an _Avatairee_ , an Avatar of the Force, or perhaps something beyond the Force.  Qui-Gon stared down at the Senate Dome, his lips pinched into a thin, angry line.  A Sith who wanted his current Padawan, who’d all but ensured the death of his last Padawan, and who, Qui-Gon suspected, might have driven his own Master mad.  He’d shared all that he’d learned with Padmé, Anakin, and Obi-Wan, but for that last thought.  There was too much anger there, on all fronts, for that suspicion to be given due consideration as of yet.

Dooku had spoken the truth when he could have lied.  Dooku had genuinely believed the Republic to be in dire trouble.

The Republic _was_ in dire trouble.  The galaxy’s governing core was crumbling, and it would fall while riding on the back of an army so massive its like had never before been seen.

 _Who am I,_ Qui-Gon wondered, _that so much Darkness seems to swirl around my very existence?_ Normally he would have chided himself for the self-centered thought, but it didn’t feel egocentric, not now.  Xanatos and Dooku, Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Shmi:  all victims of one sort or another.  Valorum’s political downfall had predated the rise of the very corporations who now made up the political and financial backbone of the Confederacy, joined by a Senate that had voted itself into uselessness.  All of it, plotted and pushed and manipulated into place by one lone Sith, helped by the occasional Sith Apprentice.

Perhaps it was the work of generations, or perhaps this Sith was the most brilliant of his line.  It didn’t matter.  When all of this was done, Qui-Gon didn’t care who’d planned what, or what the Sith’s true identity was, as long as they ended up with a _dead_ Sith.

“Temper, temper, my Master,” Obi-Wan said, the words riding on a near-silent breath as the man appeared at his side once more.  “That way lies bad things, believe me.”

“Are you not above that sort of thing?” he asked, trying not to make the question disparaging as he turned to gaze down at the shorter man.

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, looking up at Qui-Gon with the barest trace of a smile.  “I could have ended this on the first day, Qui-Gon.  It’s what I am, who I am.  I could let this energy slide through my veins and take over my skin, and the Sith would be dead already.  And so would the Jedi.  So would we be.  So would the Republic.”

Qui-Gon sighed; a Jedi assassinating a Senator would be the Order’s downfall, now.  “I see your point.”  Their political situation was so damned tenuous of late.  No matter what evidence might ultimately have showed up to prove the Senator’s guilt, the damage would have been done, and the repercussions destructive to all.  “So:  plast and paperwork, then?”

Obi-Wan nodded.  “And when the plast and paperwork failed to lead any further, I took to going out in the dark.  I have to do _something,_ you see,” he added, a cynical, bitter smile on his face.  “If I do nothing at all to fight the Sith, then the compulsion to act, to find him and end him, starts to overwhelm me.  So I go out at night, and in some tiny way, fight the influence of the Sith.  Save a life, taunt that fucking security squad, meet with those who are fearful, find allies.”  He grinned.  “Bleed all over the city.”

“Bleeding fights Sith influence?” Qui-Gon asked, fighting a smile.

Obi-Wan shrugged.  “Better my blood than someone else’s.”

A sharp chirp interrupted them; Obi-Wan swore and fumbled at his belt for the commlink that had replaced the one Aurra Sing had turned into shrapnel.  “Lars,” he said, a terse expression on his face.

“It’s Bail,” the slightly tinny voice on the other end said, the hallmark of a very good signal scrambler.  Qui-Gon found he wasn’t surprised to find that the young Alderaani Senator was involved; very likely he was part of Padmé’s illicit group of Republic-loyal Loyalists.  “Fang Zar’s vanished, Ben.”

“Great _fuck_!” Obi-Wan swore, shoving the commlink at Qui-Gon.  “Go to Bail’s place, stay with him.  Anakin, you’re staying with Padmé, and get Typho up here once I leave.  You may need the help.”

Anakin’s eyes hardened, becoming the color of flattened steel.  “You got it.  Master, take the black speeder on the platform instead of ours, it’s faster.”

Qui-Gon nodded, already moving, willing to let questions wait.  If Obi-Wan thought their allies were in danger, then it was so.  Bail had his own security contingent, and as he and Obi-Wan raced up the short flight of stairs to the apartment’s landing platform, he told the Senator to gather it.

“Should’ve known you’d be involved eventually, Master Jinn,” Bail replied, the sound of a blaster’s power pack sliding into place translating through the comm.  “We’ll be waiting for you.  Tell Ben I said to watch his back.”

“Watch your own, it’s not blasterproof,” Obi-Wan retorted, before sprinting across the platform and leaping into the speeder the three of them had brought from the Temple.  Jeimor cawed in anger and flew out into the open air, avoiding the indignity of suffering through another speeder ride. 

Qui-Gon shut down the comm, finding the speeder that Anakin had mentioned.  _Sith,_ he thought, noticing the make and the engine lines.  He could make it to the other side of the blasted _planet_ in record time piloting that machine.  He turned just once, to find Obi-Wan watching him with a tight smile on his face.  “Be careful,” Qui-Gon said, even if it was rather a moot point.

Obi-Wan nodded.  “You, too,” he replied, just as they had parted ways so many times before.  Then he hit the thrusters of the speeder, disappearing into the steady stream of nearby traffic. 

No attack on Bail came, which was both a relief and a worry, as Qui-Gon heard nothing from Obi-Wan once they parted ways on the Naboo platform.  He and Anakin kept in contact by comm using Bail’s rather sophisticated (and highly illegal) scrambling device.

“Dare I say it again and jinx us, but it’s as quiet as a tomb here, Master,” Anakin said at one point.  Through their bond Qui-Gon could feel that his Padawan was tightly wound but not ready to respond foolishly, and that heartened him.  It was a vast improvement on a similar watch they’d shared before, months ago. 

“Similarly here, and I’m grateful,” Qui-Gon replied, though he didn’t elaborate on his thoughts.  Bail had come to his own conclusions after time passed with no enemy forthcoming.  Whatever had happened to Senator Zar had nothing to do with the Loyalist plot.  This was a new element, and until Obi-Wan came back, it would remain unknown.

Qui-Gon returned home before dawn once a fresh pair of Knights from the Temple could be summoned, and met Anakin in the Temple landing bay.  His Padawan had dark crescents under his eyes but was still alert.  “Padmé has two Knights of her own on extended guard duty, though she swore at me when I told her they were coming,” he said, grinning.  “I’ll deal with a bit of foul language if it keeps her safe.”

They returned to their quarters; he sent Anakin to bed and sat down on the sofa.  He felt far too keyed up to sleep, not willing to settle until he knew Ben Lars had returned.

 

 _He did not wear his scarlet coat,_  
_For blood and wine are red,_  
_And blood and wine were on his hands_  
_When they found him with the dead._

_-Oscar Wilde_

 

It was the rustle of wings that woke him from a meditation that had turned into a light doze.  He turned his head and saw Jeimor perched on the balcony railing outside, stretching his wings in the warm morning light.

Obi-Wan was present as well, visible once Qui-Gon walked through the balcony doorway.  He was sitting on the railing farthest from the sliding door, looking tired, worn, and literally torn.  His clothing was in even worse shape than when Shaak Tii had accused him of falling through a shredder.  “Fang Zar’s all right,” he said, apropos of nothing.  “Kidnapping attempt, I think, but either way it’s a failed attempt.  Zar is back home with a re-hired security detail that I vetted before leaving.  Apparently, someone on his staff passed out the details on the Senator’s schedule.”  Obi-Wan sighed and rubbed his cheek, smearing old blood across his skin when he did so.  “I’m not sure, but I think it might only have been a distraction, or someone truly wanted them both out of the way.  Doesn’t matter now, though.”

“What happened?” Qui-Gon asked, realizing as he spoke that he’d stepped no closer to Obi-Wan.  The energy that lurked under the Knight’s skin was palpable even from several feet away, roaming wild and free as it hunted for the target it wanted.  Qui-Gon shivered as one of those energy tendrils brushed him.  He felt no intent to harm, but the energy belonged somewhere else, some place beyond anything Qui-Gon had ever experienced.  It didn’t belong _here_.

“Ah.  Right.”  Obi-Wan sighed again and dropped down from the railing onto the balcony proper, and most of that otherworldly energy vanished as if it had never existed.  “Senator Danu is dead.”

“Danu?”  Qui-Gon swore under his breath.  While not the most likeable sort, Danu had very important influence—and he’d been at the head of those publicly challenging the Chancellor’s unofficial third term.  “How?”

“Boldly,” Obi-Wan said, grim-faced.  “Someone blew his head off while he was in a private club, entertaining his two mistresses.  No witnesses to the shooter.  Worse, the Kuat Drive Yards just became Republic property for the military.  He hadn’t yet named any heirs, and he’s the last of his bloodline that’s officially acknowledged.  Even if someone were to step up with legal claim, it’s going to get fucking steamrolled through the Senate, anyway.”

Qui-Gon pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave of the headache that immediately bloomed behind his eyes.  “Paving the way for the military to create warships that the Republic doesn’t have to pay top dollar for.  Now it’s simply a matter of budget.”  The Republic might have faced bankruptcy to fight the war, with their need to purchase transports from major suppliers.  No longer was that the case. 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan all but growled.  “You know, even if the Sith can be destroyed without causing further harm, I don’t know how the Republic is going to recover.  This is…this is massive, Qui-Gon.  I don’t know of a solution for the kind of problems the bastard is going to leave behind.”

“Nor I,” Qui-Gon murmured, reaching out at last and taking Obi-Wan’s hand in his own.  “And I refuse to worry about the things that lie beyond the defeat of the Sith when that must still come first.  Come to bed with me.”

Obi-Wan smiled.  “But I don’t need to sleep.”

“Well, I do,” Qui-Gon retorted, ignoring the sadness Obi-Wan’s answer filled him with.  “But I would like your company while I do so.”  _I want it as many times as I can get it._

His former Padawan, his _Avatairee_ , nodded.  “After I shower, I’ll join you.”

Qui-Gon was just on the edge of sleep when Obi-Wan slid into the bed next to him, and the touch of cool skin against his own told him that Obi-Wan hadn’t bothered with sleep clothing of any sort.  “Tease,” he whispered groggily.

“Not yet,” Obi-Wan replied, slinging an arm over Qui-Gon’s hip and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.  “Sleep, love.  I promise I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

The declaration brought the sting of fresh tears to Qui-Gon’s eyes, for the words he had yet to say.  “I love you.”

Obi-Wan’s breath ghosted over his skin.  “I know.”

 

_Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation,_

_and the exponent of breath._

_-Emily Dickinson_

 

He awoke sometime that afternoon to the sound of Ben switching on Qui-Gon’s comm, which had been chiming insistently.  “Qui-Gon Jinn’s answering service, Ben Lars speaking, how may I direct your call?” Obi-Wan greeted the caller cheerfully.

“You can tell me what the hell happened last night, that’s what,” Mace retorted.  “What did you do, lose another comm?”

Obi-Wan tilted his head, considering.  “I think it got shot.  No, I gave it to Qui-Gon.  You’ll have to ask him where it is.”

“I am going to start charging you for them.”  Mace sighed.  “Danu is dead, Fang Zar was the victim of a kidnapping attempt, and you’ve got me sending Knights on secret guard duty for two of our strongest Senate allies.  Details, Obi-Wan.”

Qui-Gon raised his head sleepily.  Mace knew?

Obi-Wan noticed the movement and smiled at him; Qui-Gon smiled back, just in time to realize that while Obi-Wan might have sat up in the bed they were sharing, he hadn’t yet bothered to put on any blasted _pants_.  “That’s cheating,” he mouthed at Obi-Wan.

“Yep!” Obi-Wan mouthed back, before starting to fill Mace in on the details of last night while Qui-Gon stumbled out of bed, getting into his own clothes in an attempt to start the day.  Night.  Whatever it was.  Qui-Gon had the feeling that he and Anakin were going to be nocturnal for a while.

He froze in the midst of adjusting his tunics, listening with his blood running cold as Obi-Wan described what he’d done to get Senator Zar free of his captors.  Anyone else would have been dead multiple times over.  The bid to remove Zar’s presence from the Senate had been just as deliberately deadly as Danu’s, and if not for Obi-Wan, there would have been two strong-voiced, respected Senators lost.  They couldn’t afford to lose _any_ of those voices, because now they were so very few.

“Force,” Mace hissed, his frustration evident.  “We can’t guard everyone’s backs, and continue to do what has been asked of us, _and_ follow the Force!’

“Well, then we stop doing what the Senate’s asking, and follow the Force for awhile,” Obi-Wan suggested, and Qui-Gon turned to look at him in surprise.

“Now is not the right time for such things,” Mace said, but was quickly interrupted.

“Bullshit, Mace,” Obi-Wan said, glaring at the comm even if the expression couldn’t be seen.  “When is the right time for it, then?  When we’re all exhausted?  When we’re all dead?  The Republic has their war machine.  Let the Senate be in charge of it, it’s their _job_!  Our job is to ensure peace.  Negotiate.  Find other ways.  The only reason we’ve fought wars on behalf of the Republic in the past is because they didn’t have a fucking army.  Well, now they do!  Let them use it.”

There was silence from the comm.  Qui-Gon stared at Obi-Wan in nonplussed delight.  This was the Padawan he’d trained to the cusp of Knighthood, now taking on the Head of the Order, and he was _brilliant_ at it.  “I love you,” he said, grinning.

Obi-Wan inclined his head.  “Thank you,” he grinned back, understanding Qui-Gon perfectly. 

There was more silence.  Obi-Wan quirked an eyebrow at the comm.  “Still breathing?”

“Yes.  I—I need to talk to Yoda.  Hell, I need to speak to the entire Council.”

“Does this mean you agree with my point?” Obi-Wan asked.

“This means that I think you’re a genius, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Mace replied, his voice soft.  “I am not the strategist that others are, but this… this may be the key to rescuing our diplomatic standing.  The Senate won’t be happy with us, but the Republic, on the other hand…  Tell Qui-Gon I said good morning, and that if Anakin turns out to be anything like you, I will apologize to him with my forehead on the ground for misjudging them both.”

Qui-Gon found that his jaw was hanging open.  “Did I hear that man correctly?”

“It would seem so,” Obi-Wan replied, tossing the comm aside when the call terminated.  “I need to get dressed.”  He paused.  “I need to go _find_ clothes,” he amended.  “Which means going outside, dropping down two levels, and hoping I don’t flash anyone who has an open window.”

Qui-Gon chuckled.  “You could just use your robe and walk about the tower like a normal person,” he said, realizing only at the end that it had taken all his willpower not to say ‘living person.’ 

“Not as much fun.  Sides, I think my cloak is full of holes again, too.”  He sighed, amused.  “And then I should go see Asa.  We need a traumatized warlord about as much as we need an angry one.”

“And then?”

Obi-Wan had opened Qui-Gon’s door, looking about to see if Anakin had awoken yet.  When Anakin proved to be still snoring, audible even behind his closed door, Obi-Wan approached the balcony where Jeimor was napping.  “Well, I suppose I’ll be going out again after dark,” he said, scratching Jeimor’s back.  The crow gurgled and stretched out his wings in appreciation.  “See what’s what.”

Qui-Gon followed, amused to find himself trailing behind a naked Avatar.  A very tempting, teasing, naked Avatar, and Qui-Gon had rarely found himself so utterly distracted.  “Obi-Wan?”

“Hmm?” Obi-Wan paused in the midst of looking over the railing.  The late afternoon sun lit up his entire body, reflecting off of pale skin and copper hair.

“Can I…  I’d like to go with you tonight,” Qui-Gon said, trying not to sound desperate, trying not to sound like he couldn’t bear to let Obi-Wan out of his sight.

Obi-Wan looked at him, his eyes gone flat and gray.  “You cannot go as a Jedi.  Lightsabers stay here.”

“I understand that,” Qui-Gon replied.  There could be no contamination of the Order’s reputation, not at this stage of the game.  Especially not if the Council decided that Obi-Wan’s idea had merit.

“It’s dark. It’s dangerous.  Every night there’s some new brutality.  Every night out there I do something that would mean my death were I still alive.”  Obi-Wan left the railing and stepped closer to Qui-Gon, looking up at him with fierce intensity.  “Do you know what you’re asking?  Do you know what you’re asking of _me?_ ”

In answer Qui-Gon bent his head down and kissed Obi-Wan, feeling skin that was slightly cooler than his, feeling lips move with his own.  Obi-Wan’s arm snaked up and coiled itself around Qui-Gon’s neck.  The kiss ended with a gasp from Obi-Wan, and when their eyes met once more the gray had been overtaken by blue-green.  Life-color.  “You _matter_ to me,” Qui-Gon whispered.  “Every moment is important, every smile, every laugh.  Every second of you is what I want because I know that ultimately these seconds are going to be all I’ll have of you.  Compared to that I fear _nothing_.  Nothing, you understand?”

Obi-Wan nodded, the ghost of a smile on his face, but his eyes were more alive than Qui-Gon had seen them since he had first met a man who called himself Ben Lars.  “Come to my quarters after sundown,” he said, and then leapt over the railing.

Jeimor eyed him curiously.  -You have learned your lessons well.-

Qui-Gon swallowed hard, meeting the crow’s unblinking amber gaze.  “How could I not?”

Jeimor dipped his head in acknowledgement before jumping from the railing, diving down to follow Obi-Wan.

 

_Bury me in falling leaves_

_Quilt me in the frozen snow_

_Pieces of me wash like seeds_

_Across the road and go_

_Into the sea like ash and prayer_

_Upon the wind they speak of_

_Time and gods and mortal breath_

_“How much time have I got left?”_

 

He was at Ben Lars’ door at dark, as asked.  He’d forgone his usual tunics for a shirt that was a few shades darker than his leggings, and his cloak already seemed ideal for joining a gray and black-garbed companion into the depths of Coruscant.  Qui-Gon sighed and wondered if he was being foolish.  He was no longer young.  Middle-aged would be more accurate, and he’d used his body harshly over its three-quarters of a century.

“Are you seriously calling yourself old?” Obi-Wan asked, the door sliding open without preamble.

“Old?  Perhaps not,” Qui-Gon said, stepping aside when Ben walked out, his cloak thrown over his arm, the door to his quarters sliding shut behind him.  “But I do seem to be suffering from a severe lack of youth,” he said, smiling and pulling on a lock of his silver hair.

“I think it’s rather lovely, actually,” Obi-Wan countered, linking their arms together just as he had done with Anakin the previous evening.  “And being thirty years older than you are now certainly didn’t stop Dooku.  You’re not allowed to call yourself old until you hit your twelfth decade, at least.”

“You overestimate my chances,” Qui-Gon chuckled.  “The way trouble finds me, I’ll be lucky to finish _this_ one.”

Obi-Wan scowled at him.  “Don’t say things like that.  Ever.  What you said to me also works the other way ‘round, Qui-Gon Jinn:  Every moment, every second, is precious.  Cherish it all, or see it wasted.”  The bitterness was evident in Obi-Wan’s voice, and Qui-Gon sighed and pulled the younger man closer, both of them falling silent until they reached Obi-Wan’s goal—the platform just below the roof of the North Tower.

“We’re going that way?” Qui-Gon asked, raising both eyebrows in concern as he stepped close to the edge of the platform.  The gusts caught at his hair and pulled it in all directions, and he swore and stepped back, pulling another leather tie from his belt pouch.  Obi-Wan watched him capture all of his hair in a tail, an amused smile on his face.

“Master of the Living Force, Qui-Gon Jinn—” Obi-Wan waved a hand at the expanse of skyline, grinning broadly.  “This is the way forward.  Come and live with me?” he asked, holding out his hand in invitation.  The wind had taken hold of Obi-Wan’s hair, his cloak, and his eyes were shining with obvious anticipation.

Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan’s hand and let him pull them both to the very edge of the platform.  “Am I going to regret this?” he asked, keeping his tone mild.  While he did not fear heights, he had not quite done anything like this before.

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “Never,” he promised.

He was right.  The wind caught them both, and it was like being touched by a living thing, by the Force itself, and listening to Obi-Wan laugh in true delight became a memory that he would guard in his heart forever.  Qui-Gon felt free, weightless in spite of the sharp tug of gravity, and let Obi-Wan lead them from roof to roof, never letting go of his Avatar’s hand while Jeimor flew above them, just one more ebon shadow in the dark.

Qui-Gon rolled over in the wind to see Obi-Wan’s face, and was not surprised by the dust that had returned, that the graceful sweep of black crow’s wings covered his cheeks and shadowed his eyes once more.  Ghost of solid flesh, Avatar of night and wing, a soul brought forth by Jeimor to fix what was broken. 

“What does that mean?” he asked, when they landed on the final roof the winds could take them to.  He should have been out of breath and wasn’t; indeed, around Ben, he felt at least a decade younger, and the joy of it was glorious.  “You said before, that something broke.”

Obi-Wan jumped off the edge of the building to land on the street below, and Qui-Gon followed, their feet impacting duracrete with nothing more than a muted thump of noise.  Obi-Wan glanced behind them, as if expecting to see someone waiting for them, but the alleyway was deserted, and no cries met their ears.  “Something felt unbalanced, in my head,” Obi-Wan replied at last, frowning as they began to walk.  “That’s about as well as I can describe it, since I didn’t truly have a head anymore for it to feel anything.  This lack of balance felt like I’d caused it, and if I was responsible, then I insisted that I needed to fix it.”

Qui-Gon smiled; those were certainly the words of his honor-bound, duty-adhering Padawan.  “Then what does the Sith have to do with any of it?”

“Beyond the Sith representing a very large threat to the balance of the Force in regards to the rest of the universe?” Obi-Wan shook his head.  “I don’t know.  He’s related to the discord, the lack of balance, but can’t be the primary cause because I didn’t create the asshole in the first place.”

Qui-Gon chuckled.  “True enough.”

“What about that prophecy nonsense?” Obi-Wan asked, halting their steps just shy of the first broad walkway to show signs of life.  “Isn’t that supposed to be about bringing balance, also?”

“It’s not nonsense,” Qui-Gon reiterated for what felt like the thousandth time.  “The prophecy is about One who will bring balance, yes, but that balance hinges on choices that are made.  Balance can mean many things,” he continued, watching Obi-Wan.  The man’s eyes were taking in the street, darting from person to person, but Qui-Gon knew he was listening.  “Balance for the Jedi?  Balance for the Sith?  For the galaxy at large?  What if the Chosen One brings balance merely by being the person that finds the one who can do such a thing?  Or perhaps the Chosen One brings balance by having children?  That’s the annoying part of prophecy, and why I tell Anakin to ignore its influence on his life, because ultimately the choice of what instrument balance shall be is up to him.”

“Choice,” Obi-Wan repeated in a whisper.  “Balance is choice.  Lack of balance is lack of choice.”

“That’s one way of putting it—hey!” Qui-Gon grabbed Obi-Wan when the other man suddenly sagged to the ground, a horrified look on his face.  “What’s wrong?”

“Things weren’t unbalanced because I changed our fates.  Not specifically, anyway,” Obi-Wan was staring at nothing, wide-eyed.  “It’s because I attempted to make a choice for _Anakin_.” 

“What?” Qui-Gon blinked in confusion.  “How?”

“I didn’t just throw myself on a Sith’s blade because of you,” Obi-Wan said, both of them settling onto the ground in a more or less unbalanced jumble of limbs.  “If I’d been left behind to train Anakin, his loss to the Sith was absolute certainty.  I could not, did _not_ have the ability to do what you would have asked me to do.  In giving him you, making sure you lived to train him, Anakin’s chances were better, so that he could actually become the Knight he wanted to be instead of some tool of a Sith we didn’t yet know of.”

Qui-Gon remembered clearly what Yoda had said, ten years ago:  _“Dangerous he still could be, but the danger has become… less.”_   “But…Obi-Wan, by that very reasoning, you cannot be the one to destroy the Sith, not without again taking away Anakin’s choice.”

“And thus things would become further unbalanced.  Yes, I realize that,” Obi-Wan said, and rested his face in his hands.  “Aw, Force!” he grumbled through his fingers.  “Could this get any more complicated?”

“Probably,” Qui-Gon said, smiling at Obi-Wan when the other man dropped his hands.  “We’re involved, after all.  Things always had a way of getting out of hand.”

Obi-Wan laughed.  “Hmm.  Yes.  Well!  Let’s go and make things complicated, shall we?”

Sometimes they walked with the flow of people, who ignored their presence; other times they stayed in the dark, where Obi-Wan glided through the shadows like he was one, and Qui-Gon more often than not had to use Jeimor to track Obi-Wan’s location. 

It was after hours of traversing walkways that they found their complication.  “Jamel,” Ben said, dropping down next to a man in a short-cropped leather jacket.  He had short gray hair, eyes like steel, and a blaster strapped prominently into place on his hip.  “You’re up late.”

“’m always up late, of late, Ben Lars,” the older man replied, glancing curiously at Qui-Gon.  “Brought a friend, have ye?”

“This is Ki,” Ben said, using an alternate identity Qui-Gon hadn’t even thought about in fifteen years.  “He’s curious as to what the mid-levels are like in recent weeks.”

“Ah.”  Jamel nodded at Qui-Gon.  “Bad, s’what they are, Ki.  People are terrified.”

“So I’ve seen,” Qui-Gon replied, keeping his hood up to shadow his features, as Ben was doing.  On walkways where squads of the Office of Republic Security had patrolled, residents of Coruscant had scattered like insects afraid to be caught by the light.  Twice Ben had intervened with swift, silent intent when white-armored troops had taken it upon themselves to interrogate whoever caught their fancy.  One officer was still alive, if unconscious and naked.  The other one had been torturing his quarry, and Ben had unceremoniously tossed the trooper off a landing platform.  Qui-Gon had been appalled, at first, but memory stopped him:  _Justice is not so black and white for us as it is for the dead, hmm?_

Keeping his silence had been worthwhile.  As the night had progressed he’d witnessed Obi-Wan save far more lives than he ever put in danger.  Qui-Gon had even been of help at one point, when they’d encountered a group of lower level denizens who were trying to figure out how to get off Coruscant without using the standard transports.  The Security Office had them on lists for immediate apprehension.  One of the girls on the Office’s list was five years Standard.  _Five_.  What the tiny Twi’lek could possibly have done to warrant attention by an anti-terrorist squad, Qui-Gon had no idea, but there was no way in hell he was going to let that troop of white-armored bullies get their hands on her.  He knew what to do when Obi-Wan did not, and sent them to Dexter.  The big Besalisk would know how to get them to safety, and would likely cackle like a manic spicer while plotting his way around Republic security.

Jamel led them to another group of people, all of them armed, some of them masked, some hooded.  Others, like Jamel, seemed unconcerned if their identities were made known, and ranged from a girl in her late teens to a man in his ninth decade.  “We’ve talked about it, and we decided it’s time for a little active resistance,” Jamel said, resting his hand on his blaster grip as he spoke.  “We don’t want to hurt anyone, but someone needs to send a message to the Senate that this damned Security Squad has got to go.”

“What have you got in mind?” Obi-Wan asked.  He was perched, bird-like, on an old shipping crate, with Qui-Gon standing beside him.  The crowd had accepted Qui-Gon’s presence on Ben’s word without a murmur of protest.

The girl, Roshi, grinned.  “M’ uncle’s got a lot of plastic stocked away, and I’ve got a cousin in the pirate broadcasting business.”

The old man nodded.  “Going to blow that damned Office into the stratosphere,” he said, spitting on the ground behind him as he spoke.  “The moment it burns, Roshi’s cousin pirates the waves and broadcasts a nice lil’ vid we put together.”

A woman with an eye patch and permanent scowl spoke up.  “We got good recordings of some of the Squad’s less charming moments, and the results afterward:  blood, bodies, and all.  The entirety of Coruscant’s going to find out what their Security Squad’s been up to, whether they like it or not.”

“They’re going to accuse you of faking the footage,” Qui-Gon pointed out.

The old man spat again.  “Yeah, we know.  Copies are going out to some of the more sane-sounding members of the Senate, and what’s left of Judicial after the military sucked ‘em in.  They can verify, and _some_ people will listen.  We know not everyone will,” he added, sighing.  “But that’s always the way o’ things.”

“People see what they want to see,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“What do you think, Ben?” Jamel asked, glancing at Obi-Wan.  “You’re the one that told us not to risk our lives unless it was worth it.  Think this merits?”

Obi-Wan pulled his hood back, revealing the black streaks and pale gray dust on his face.  “I think it does.  But you’ll need a rear guard, so that as many of you make it back home in the morning as possible.  I don’t think the Security Squad will leave their main Office unguarded, nor ignore an attack on its premises.”

“You volunteerin’, then?” Eye-patch asked with a sour look.

“Yep,” Obi-Wan replied, without a moment of hesitation.

“Ben,” Qui-Gon put his hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.  “Are you sure about this?  This is… we’re…”  _It’s treason!_ his mind screamed at him.  “In the wrong or not, by attacking the Security Office we are, in effect, attacking the Republic.”

Obi-Wan looked up at him, his eyes gray-washed and glimmering in the dim light.  “Think about what we know about who’s truly in charge of the Republic right now,” he said.  “Think about what that man’s ultimate goal will be, what his people’s ultimate goal has been for thousands of years.  Think about the Confederacy’s true fate, the Security Squad’s presence, the fear that grips the entirety of the Republic.  Think about all of it, and then tell me I shouldn’t help them.”

Qui-Gon dropped his hand, his mind whirling as it struggled to do just as Ben asked.  The Republic was, somehow, under the control of the Sith.  The Sith’s ultimate goal was power…and the destruction of the Jedi was a path to that power.  The Confederacy was meant to fall, which would strengthen whatever political position the Republic was in at the time… and the Republic was going anti-Jedi at an appalling rate, given the millennia of service the Order had provided.  In ten years those services, those sacrifices, had come to mean nothing.  “In a year, maybe two, the Confederacy won’t be the target.  We’ll be the targets,” he whispered, pulling back his hood.

“Shite, I know you,” Roshi said, peering up at Qui-Gon.  “Who’r you, then?”

“The other half of your rear guard,” Qui-Gon said, and caught the rifle Jamel tossed in his direction. 

**Resistance**

 

All in all, it probably could have gone better.  They found the Office with a full squad in residence, taking a break from patrol.  Ben sent Jeimor ahead to peer in a window, and before Qui-Gon knew it there was a delighted grin on his face.  “I know these boys.  Shall I empty the building for you?” he asked Jamel.

Jamel nodded.  “If ya think you can, go for it.  Meant what I said about not hurtin’ anyone.”

“Like they’d have the same consideration for us,” Eye-patch muttered.

“Probably not, but we’re better than they are,” Roshi said, glaring at the older woman.  “Don’t you go shootin’ anyone we don’t have to.”

Eye-patch sighed reluctantly, but nodded.  “Go to it, Lars,” she said, hefting one of the boxes of plastic onto her shoulder.  “Best done soon, or we’ll be greeting the dawn.”

Ben disappeared; within five minutes there was a huge commotion inside the office, followed by the sound of blasterfire, armored footsteps on the run, and the raucous caw of one laughing crow.  Qui-Gon didn’t see Ben leave, but the troops filed out en masse, charging down the primary walkway with their weapons at the ready.  Then three others of the ragtag little group, all of them masked, made their presence known with blaster fire and a few well-placed detonators, and the squad was suddenly in pursuit of four troublemakers instead of one. 

“Couldn’t have done a better job if we’d planned that for a week,” Jamel muttered, pleased.

 _That was fun!_ Obi-Wan said in Qui-Gon’s head a moment later.  _They just hate it when their dead targets turn up alive again.  We’re leading them out into the District.  Tell Jamel it’s time.  I’ll be back as soon as I can ditch the clones._

There were two soldiers left in the building to man the office.  Qui-Gon dealt with them before Jamel could even open the door with a subtle touch of the Force.  Eye-patch snickered when she saw the two armored men, sans helmets, slumped over at their workstations. 

Roshi paused, her eyes lighting up.  “I knew I knew who ye were!” she exclaimed.  “You’re one of the Jedi what was on Geonosis!”

The old man swatted her on the back of the head while Eye-patch and Jamel hoisted up the unconscious troopers, hauling them outdoors and safely out of range from the impending blast.  “Yes, and why don’t you just go ahead and tell the entire district?” he said, shaking his head.  “Say please an’ thank you for the help, an’ no Jedi were here tonight.  Unnerstand?”

Roshi scowled.  “Yeah, I get it.  These two boys were just drinkin’ a bit too heavily, s’right, Ki?” she continued, grinning as she set up the first plastic charge.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon agreed, hiding a smile as he kept watch at the door, his hood pulled low over his face again.  Those he were with had as much to lose as he did and wouldn’t betray his presence.  The Security Squad, on the other hand, would be far too delighted to bag a Jedi.  He didn’t dare give the Sith a ready excuse to push sanctions against the Order through the Senate.

The charges were set and ready to detonate by remote when trouble came calling, as Qui-Gon knew it would.  “Company,” he informed the others, taking aim with the rifle and firing a stun beam right into the midst of a new squad, one that looked to be investigating their brethren’s rushed departure. 

“Damn,” Jamel growled, then glanced at Eye-patch.  “Make us a door, love.  Roshi, contact our getaway vehicle and tell them where to meet us.”

Roshi pulled out a commlink; Eye-patch grinned nastily and set a small charge.  “Fire in the hole, folks,” she announced, joining Jamel, Roshi, and the old man behind a support pillar.  Qui-Gon pulled his cloak up and shielded himself from the worst of it.  The small yet efficient explosion took a chunk out of the wall, leaving the back of the building open to the elements.  Then blasterfire began raining in through the open doorway once more.

“You might want to leave now,” he said, firing steadily.  Two more of the cloned troops dropped to his shots, but there were still far too many remaining.  Roshi and Jamel hesitated at the improvised exit.

“Not without you, man,” Jamel said, wincing as a bolt ricocheted off the wall near his head.  “Move it, already!”

“Got this one,” Eye-patch said, taking another detonator out of her pocket.  “Fire in the hole, boys!” she crowed again, this time at the squad on the outer walk, right before throwing the device straight at them.  It slid down the walkway, causing troopers to scatter in all directions.  Qui-Gon worried for one moment that they’d just taken lives, after all, when the detonator began spewing streams of red smoke, filling the air in seconds.

“Now we go!” Jamel yelled, ducking through the wall.  Qui-Gon made sure he was the last one out, and just in time—laser fire began pouring into the building as the clones cleared the smoke.  One of the blasts lanced through the lower section of his cloak and darkened the duracrete next to his left boot. 

It was less than a quarter of a kilometer to the speeder Roshi had waiting, but it might as well have been a full klik.  They made it to a shadowy alley and decent cover before the distinct sound of many booted footfalls began trailing them.  “Damn,” Jamel muttered, taking out his blaster and kicking it over to stun.  “Lori, Roshi, Bavieu, get your asses to the speeder and get out of here.  NOW!” he roared, when the three of them only glared at him.  They scattered, but with a great show of reluctance.

“Think they’ll go?” Qui-Gon asked, both of them taking up positions behind refuse bins on either side of the alley.  Not the most defensible position, to be certain.

“Eh, they’ll go, but I’ll betcha every credit I’ve ever had in m’life that they won’t leave without us,” Jamel replied, grinning.  “Damned stubborn, the lot of ‘em.”

“As my student likes to say, that is the pot calling the kettle black,” Qui-Gon returned, amused.

Jamel laughed.  “Aye,” he said, and took out the first trooper to appear in the alley with a well-aimed shot to an unprotected shoulder joint.  “Let’s make sure these boys need to trip over each other to come after us!”

In less than two minutes the alley was filled with smoke, the burning stink of melting plastic, the hot tang of metal, and ozone from repeated stun and laser blasts.  Four of the clones were lying prone at the alley entrance, and two more troopers were using the pile as impromptu shields.  Qui-Gon shook his head and looked around for something to gain them more time, catching sight of an old escape ladder and platform above the squad.  Old bolts, rusted by Coruscant pollution and weather, had worn free, and the entire metal structure hung precariously overhead.

“Jamel!” Qui-Gon barked, flipping the rifle back over to full power and taking aim at the one remaining support the escape platform had.  The older man saw what he was doing and shot at it as well, superheating the metal in moments.  With a great shriek, the old metal came free and fell straight down onto the squad that had them pinned.

“Now we can go,” Jamel said, and they both turned and ran for the waiting speeder. 

 _Obi-Wan?_ he sent, wondering where the man and his crow had gotten to.

 _On my way!_ Obi-Wan replied.  _Just gotta shake these—OW!  Mother.  Fucker!_

Strangely enough, the virulent swearing was more reassuring than anything else Obi-Wan could have said.  Smiling, Qui-Gon came to a halt next to Jamel, who was already chewing out his ragtag group for not being gone already.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eye-patch said, rolling her eyes heavenwards.  “We’ll leave you behind right ‘bout the same time you’d leave _us_ behind.  Now get in the damned speeder, Jamel.”

There was one single warning from the Force, a sudden jarring, and with it came understanding that there was time for only one thing.  Qui-Gon grabbed Roshi, spinning them both in place, and lost his breath when the blaster bolt struck him high in the back instead of taking Roshi’s head off.

“Dammit!” Jamel yelled, pulling his blaster and nailing the Squad trooper in the chest, killing him instantly.  “Eye for an eye, you bastards!” 

“Stun…please,” Qui-Gon whispered, realizing as he spoke the hissed words that his left lung was burnt, incapable of giving him air. 

“Gods, you are a stubborn brute,” Eye-patch said, as she and Roshi, tears running down her young, narrow face, helped him into the speeder.  Jamel and the old man, Bavieu, were firing a volley of stun blasts at the roof where the second half of the alley squad had gotten the drop on their position.

“In…good company,” he said, smiling, and laid his hand over his heart.  The smile on his face faded as the speeder took off with Jamel and Bavieu perched on the back end of it, firing to cover their escape.  Qui-Gon knew what his senses were telling him, and none of it was good.  It was hard to breathe, and the pain from the blaster wound was finally overriding adrenaline. 

He closed his eyes and promptly blacked out.

 

_Tears are the silent language of grief._

_—Voltaire_

 

Qui-Gon opened his eyes to fiery pain and a true struggle for breath.  He was lying on his side, being supported by Roshi, who was still crying.  There were hands at his back, and he heard the sound of ripping cloth.

“Still with us, aye?” Jamel murmured, kneeling down next to Roshi.  “That’s good.  Roshi, hush up, girl.  The man isn’t dead yet.”

There was tugging on his shirt, warm hands on his skin, and then Eye-patch swore.  “He won’t live long without help, not with this wound.  If we take him to any of the public medical centers, the Security Squad will get ahold of him.  Maybe us, too.”

_Master?  Master, what’s wrong?_

Qui-Gon sighed.  Anakin.  Oh, gods.  _I’m…with friends, Anakin,_ he said, because he didn’t want to lie, but he wasn’t yet ready to admit to his Padawan what he already knew.

He was dying.

 _You’re hurt, dammit!_ Anakin swore.  _I’m coming to find you._

Qui-Gon sent vague agreement, because protesting would have been a waste of strength.  Once Anakin Skywalker decided to do something, it was generally a good idea to get out of his way.  He smiled at the thought and closed his eyes again.

He awoke to the sound of his own breath wheezing in his chest, and found Obi-Wan kneeling where Jamel had been, his eyes gray-washed and filled with stunned horror.  _How strange… it is… to find ourselves… like this again,_ Qui-Gon thought.  He understood the peace he’d seen in his Padawan’s eyes, now, when Obi-Wan had lain dying in his arms.  Dying wasn’t so bad.  Painful, somewhat exhausting…but not that bad.

Obi-Wan smiled and cupped Qui-Gon’s face with his hands as he leaned forward.  “That’s ridiculous,” he said, his breath wafting across Qui-Gon’s face, warm and sweet.  “Do you think I’d go through all of this nonsense just to let you go that easily?”

Qui-Gon opened his mouth to speak, and managed to whisper, “Ben,” before his lungs simply gave out, refusing to draw breath again.

“Not yet, love,” Obi-Wan replied, and the hands on Qui-Gon’s face grew warmer.  Then that warmth spread, and Qui-Gon could feel every part of his body that it touched—even the ends of his hair seemed to grow warm.  He was light-headed, felt like he was floating, or falling into the wind.  The warmth spread to his chest, and his lungs kicked back in with a dizzying rush and pounding heartbeat that catapulted him into unconsciousness.

 

 

**Transience**

 

“Sweet blessed Mother,” said Roshi in a hushed whisper, watching as the light from Ben’s hands spread down into old Ki’s body.  “He’s healin’ ‘im!”

Jamel swore in reverence, but Lori was ever practical.  “Roshi’s right,” she said, examining the wound in Ki’s back.  “Wound’s closing.”

“Jedi healing,” Roshi said, shaking her head.  “Thought I’d never actually see anythin’ like it.”

Papa Bavieu snorted.  “Girl, t’aint all that’s happening.  Lookit that man’s hair.”

Roshi looked, and felt her eyes grow wide.  “Wow,” she breathed, awed. 

“S’what the others were whispering about,” Jamel said, kneeling down and gazing at Ben, whose eyes were closed, his lips moving as if he were speaking, though Roshi couldn’t hear him saying anything.  “They’ve been whispering about Avatars.”

“ _Avatairee_ ,” Ben murmured, opening his eyes.  To Roshi they seemed colorless, even more than before.  She felt no fear, though.  She was young, but not foolish, and knew good folk when she saw them. 

And Ben had saved her life. 

Lori gave Ben a sardonic look.  “Pfft.  Whatever you are, Kid, you don’t look so good right now.”

Ben glanced down at Ki, who was breathing easily; no longer unconscious, but merely resting.  “Yeah…  I…  Jeimor?” he called, right before his eyelids flickered. 

Jamel caught Ben as his eyes rolled up.  Roshi bit her lip, noticing that the skin of Ben’s hands were now just as gray as that dust stuff he painted his face with. 

“Dammit, Lars.”  Jamel shook his head.  “Now I’ve got two Jedi on my hands, and no idea what to do with either of ‘em.”

Papa Bavieu pointed to something behind Roshi, a bewildered look on his face.  “Seems t’ me that we don’t have t’ make that decision,” he said.

Roshi turned her head, as much as she could move to look while still holding onto dear Ki, and felt her jaw fall open.  There were scores of people approaching along the abandoned walkway they’d landed on.  They held candles, or torches, or glowrods, or merely walked empty-handed. 

Every single one of them bore dusted faces.  Just like Ben’s.

**Resonance**

 

Anakin Skywalker could find Qui-Gon Jinn anywhere, and that had been a fact of his existence since their training bond had formed between them.  Sometimes, however, the finding took a long damn time.

Padmé squeezed his hand reassuringly.  “I’m sure he’s fine, Ani.  Ben is with him, after all.”

Anakin nodded, but in truth, he was no longer worried about that.  What had happened to his Master, whatever had been damaged, had been fixed before they’d found a place to park the speeder.  Now he simply felt driven to find.  His worry, and his Force-sense, was focused on Obi-Wan.  Ben.  His brother.

A cloaked being stepped out of the shadows, lowering a hood and revealing a tiny face dusted in gray powder, her eyes ringed with kohl.  Anakin stopped short in surprise, his hand moving for his lightsaber before his brain registered that there was no danger. 

Padmé saw the humanoid girl and gasped.  “She looks like—”

“You be seeking the _avatairee_ , then?” the girl asked, blinking large green eyes at them.

Anakin nodded.  “Yes, and my Master.  Have you seen them?”

The girl smiled.  “Oh, yes.  Come, come.  We’ve kept them safe.  Mama Vima sent me out to find you.  She said you and the Senator-wife would come seeking them.”

Padmé and Anakin exchanged looks.  Anakin sighed internally, once again wondering at the point of secret marriages when everyone seemed to know upon sight that he and Padmé had wed.  “Who is Mama Vima?” Anakin asked, following along after the green-eyed girl when she began walking away.

“She’s the one who finds us.  She saw the _avatairee_ first, and put away her drink.  She finds us after the _avatairee_ helps us, and we bear the dust-paint to honor his fight.”

“Why do you do that?” Padmé wanted to know, curious, as they entered a building that looked to have been condemned and forgotten centuries ago.

The girl paused, giving Padmé a look that would have been condescending if the sentiment hadn’t rung so clear and honest.  “Because it’s our fight, too, Senator-wife.”

The girl led them to a massive room, once devoted to storage for the rest of the building.  It was empty now, and filled with people like the girl, all of them kneeling, cloaked, and bearing gray-dusted faces.  Some of them, like their guide, had added black dust around their eyes, or had drawn designs, though none had the spread wings that Anakin had seen on Ben’s face.  There were candles everywhere, melting onto the floor and creating misshapen pools in wax as they burned freely.

In the center of the room, with space cleared around them, lay Qui-Gon Jinn and Ben Lars. 

“Master,” Anakin whispered and started forward, halting when he wasn’t sure if the crowd would rise up against him.

“No, no.  It’s all right,” the girl said, smiling and beckoning them on.  “Both of you:  welcome.  This is our home, but your place is with the _avatairee_ and his love.”

“Love?” Padmé repeated, her voice soft.  “That explains so much.”

“Yeah,” Anakin agreed, stepping around the next robed person, a Sullustan with his eyes closed, humming under his breath.  “It’s too bad they couldn’t figure that out _before_ Naboo,” he said, but without the bitterness he’d felt for the past ten years.  Most of it had gone the night Ben Lars had come to his and Qui-Gon’s quarters, and Anakin had seen his Master rendered completely speechless.  The remainder had gone when he’d found Qui-Gon curled around Obi-Wan, asleep in a nested pile of all of their shared belongings, and even at rest there had been a smile on his face.

He loved being a Jedi, and he loved his Master, but the Order could be pretty stupid about some parts of life that the rest of the universe understood implicitly.  Most Jedi would see it as a mark of impatience, but Anakin had walked into his marriage with his eyes and heart open, and he had never looked back.

Anakin knelt next to his sleeping Master, putting a hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder.  He could smell the faint residue of burnt cloth and ozone from a blaster discharge, but in the Force his Master was glowing with health.  In fact… 

Anakin frowned.  Qui-Gon hadn’t felt that good to his senses since he’d first met the man.

Padmé joined him, dropping to her knees with easy grace.  She reached down and touched one of the strands of Qui-Gon’s hair, an odd look on her face.  “Anakin, the light is poor in here, but I had thought…  Wasn’t his hair silver?”

Anakin blinked and looked closer, picking up a long lock of his Master’s hair and running it through his fingers.  “Yeah,” he whispered, eyes widening.  He swallowed; Qui-Gon’s _hair_ was the same color it had been on Tatooine, ten years ago.

Qui-Gon stirred, the echoing sense of sleep through the training bond quickly becoming awareness.  His Master blinked up at him, a half-smile tugging at his lips.  “’lo Anakin,” he murmured.

Anakin breathed out a sigh of relief he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying, bending down and hugging the prone older man.  “I let you go out alone and you promptly get shot.  What am I going to do with you, Master?”

Qui-Gon got to his knees with Anakin’s help, reaching out to touch Padmé’s shoulder in welcome.  Padmé smiled and hugged him, a ritual of greeting they had been exchanging as long as Anakin had known them both.  “You wouldn’t have had to worry about that any longer, if it hadn’t been for Ben,” Qui-Gon answered at last.  He turned, a concerned frown on his face, and Anakin felt the same worry.  Any other time and Ben would have been awake _first._

Qui-Gon touched Ben’s face, brushing his fingers through the dust and turning the tips of his fingers grayish-white.  “Ben?” he called, closing his eyes, and Anakin felt his Master call upon the Force.

His eyes shot open in the next instant, and he lowered his head until their foreheads were touching.  “Oh, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispered, voice so soft that only Anakin and Padmé could hear.  “What did you do?”

**Expiation**

 

“He gave you life,” a voice answered.  Qui-Gon looked up as an older woman approached, cloaked like the others, her face dusted like Ben’s.  Instead of wings, the black dust on her face was drawn in mimicry of falling tears.  The only thing she carried was a gnarled old cane, which went down with every step of her left foot.  “Perhaps a bit much of it, but the power he bears is a bit harder to control than what we see of the Force.”

Anakin stood up, hand near his lightsaber, but Qui-Gon felt no danger, not from this one.   In the Force, though…

“You’re a Jedi,” Anakin blurted in surprise.

“Ah, no, Walker of the Sky,” she said, shaking her head.  “I’ve not been a Jedi for many years now.”

“I suppose you must be Mother Vima?” Padmé guessed, joining Anakin, while Qui-Gon remained kneeling at Obi-Wan’s side.  He picked up one of Ben’s hands, worried by the pallor of his skin and too-cool feel.

“They call me Mother because I’ve mothered ‘em all, at one time or t’ other,” Mother Vima said, smiling wide and revealing crooked, gapped teeth.  “You’ll soon be a mother yourself, Senator-wife.  You’ll be seeing your own fair share of it.”

Qui-Gon returned his gaze to the old woman, matching her face and name to one he’d met long ago.  “You’re Vima Da-Boda,” he said.

“Aye,” she answered.  “And you be Qui-Gon Jinn.  Though, you be a bit bigger than last I saw you,” she added, grinning.  “Didn’t think I’d ever see any of you younglings again, not after what happened to my Neema.  I disappeared myself into a bottle for many years.  Least, till this one,” she nodded at Ben, “fell out of the sky and into my favorite alley.  I poured out m’ brandy and haven’t seen it since, ‘cause when there’s an Avatar present…  Well.”  She leaned on her cane, her smile fainter but still present.  “You lot are all in the thick of it, so I imagine you perceive what’s what.”

“Vima, what’s wrong with Ben?” Qui-Gon asked, for the moment uncaring about Avatars and possibilities and the damned Sith.  All he knew was that Obi-Wan’s presence was a faint, transient thing, as if there was no longer enough life in his body to hold in his spirit.

Mother Vima tilted her head.  “You be needin’ to ask his guide that question, Master Jinn.  That’s crow-work, and nothing for mine to meddle with.  We’re only here to offer our support.  That bridge is one we can’t cross.”

Qui-Gon nodded his understanding.  “Jeimor?” he called, hoping the crow could hear and understand.

-Oh, I can hear you.  That fucking idiot shared so much of himself with you that I might well be able to hear you the rest of your fucking _life_.-

Qui-Gon raised both eyebrows in surprise.  _Why aren’t you here?_ he asked, deciding not to worry about the first part, for now.

-Because they’re everywhere and it is _creepy_ \- the bird retorted.  -All of them dusting their faces and the robes and—geeeeaaaak.-  Jeimor’s last word was too crow-like, something Qui-Gon had no hope of interpreting.  -What we do is supposed to be quiet, supposed to be not-noticed, and it’s like half the damn planet knows!-

 _Be that as it may, you still have a job to do, and a responsibility to Obi-Wan,_ Qui-Gon growled back.  _Or do you pick and choose when to be what you are?_

-Oh, fuck you- Jeimor retorted, but Qui-Gon heard the echoing rasp of wings, and after a moment the crow came sailing across the room, flapping noisily as he landed on the floor next to Obi-Wan.  Those gathered gasped, whispering to each other about the great black bird that had suddenly appeared next to their Avatar.

Jeimor chucked and cawed loudly, his wings spread.  -Stop staring at me, assholes!-he grumbled, climbing up onto Obi-Wan’s chest before settling down into place with a sigh. 

“Never saw a bird with such an attitude,” Mother Vima said mildly, and Jeimor clacked his beak at her and refused to comment.

“We need to take him home,” Qui-Gon said, lifting Obi-Wan into his arms with no difficulty.  That was almost as worrisome as the lack of response, for it was like the man weighed nothing, and that was far too close to his memories of the power station in Theed.

“Be for the best,” Vima agreed, chuckling.  “Don’t need both those boys stutterin’ and swearing and embarrassed by all the attention they be getting.”

-He’ll be fine- Jeimor added a moment later.  -I think.-

Qui-Gon stood, steadied by Anakin’s hand when Ben’s weight might have overbalanced him.  He glanced around at the gathered beings, those who had come to keep watch over the silent Avatar.  “Take care of your people, Mother Vima,” he said.

“Oh, aye.  That’ll be the easy part,” she said.  “Master Jinn…”

He paused, glancing back at her, aware that Anakin and Padmé were doing the same.  “Yes?”

Vima’s smile disappeared, and her eyes filled with wild grief.  She had known loss, soul-tearing and horrid.  Whoever her Neema had been, the parting had not been kind.  “His job—it’s almost over.  You know what that means.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes, steeling himself, and his voice was steady when he answered.  “I know.”

 

 _Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree._  
_-Antoine de Saint-Exupery_


	5. Book Five - Submission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are the miracle of force and matter making itself over into imagination and will. Incredible. The Life Force experimenting with forms. You for one. Me for another. The Universe has shouted itself alive.
> 
> We are one of the shouts.  
> -Ray Bradbury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to offer one of my exceptionally rare warnings, but it's a rather big spoiler. If you're easily broken by reading things on the internet, check the note at the end.
> 
> Also, there's a fab bit of chapter art provided by Rikarahl.

_We never live; we are always in the expectation of living._

_-Voltaire_

 

****   


 

He woke up to a heavy weight on his chest and a horrible ache behind his eyes. 

-You’re a moron- Jeimor said.

Obi-Wan sighed and opened his eyes, looking up to find a ceiling over his head that he only had vague memories of.  Qui-Gon’s room.  He was in Qui-Gon’s room, lying on his former Master’s bed.  Jeimor was sitting on his chest, and by the Force, he felt _awful._

_What…what happened?_

-I told you to stop what you were doing.  But did you listen to me?  Noooooo.-  The crow was in classic nesting position, but he looked anything but somnolent. 

Jeimor shook himself, clacked his beak, and stood up, turning his head to give Obi-Wan a baleful stare with one amber eye.  -Remember what I said?  That I didn’t think it was a good idea to use up all of the energy that keeps you here?  Hmm?  Ring any bells, golden boy?-

“Wasn’t…trying to,” Obi-Wan muttered, moving to sit up.  Jeimor hopped off, making dire comments under his breath.  The room tilted back and forth.  Obi-Wan watched it, thoughtful, wondering if Avatars threw up.

He was still sitting there long after the nausea had passed, contemplating nothing, when a large hand touched his shoulder.  Obi-Wan glanced up and found Qui-Gon giving him a worried look, one so familiar it made his heart hurt.  “Hi,” he said.

“How do you feel?” Qui-Gon asked, sitting down on the bed next to him.  Even with several hand-spans separating them, Obi-Wan could feel warmth radiating from Qui-Gon, and wondered why. 

When had he gotten so cold?  In fact, beyond the ache, he felt…disconnected.  Drifting.  Disassociated.

Lost.

“I—I feel like I’m only dreaming I’m here,” he said.  Even his voice sounded alien to his ears, like it belonged to someone else.  He dropped his gaze down to the quilt that covered Qui-Gon’s bed, touching the cloth with his fingers.  Only the faintest impression of restlessness, of sleeping and fragmented dreams, came to him.  He looked back up and became even more confused, for Qui-Gon’s hair seemed to be the wrong color.  Like he’d never been gone.

 _Had_ he gone?

“Am I here?” he asked, holding up his hand.  Not healthy skin color, but gray.  Ash-color.  Why ash?

“You’re here,” Qui-Gon affirmed, taking his hand.  So much warmer than he was.  Life-warm.  “You,” the older man continued, giving Jeimor a stern look.  “Out.”

-Heh!-  The crow obligingly took off, flying through the doorway and disappearing out into the main room.

He didn’t realize he was doing nothing more than staring in the direction Jeimor had gone until a hand touched his cheek, turning his head, guiding his eyes back to Qui-Gon’s face.  “Ben,” Qui-Gon said, and smiled.

That’s right.  He was Ben Lars—no.  No, he was…had been…

He bit his lip.  “Who am I?” he whispered, stunned to realize that knowledge had gone from his mind.

“The man I love,” Qui-Gon answered, before leaning forward and kissing him.

For a moment he did nothing more than let it happen, entranced by smooth, soft warmth.  Then, as slowly as if he were just waking, he lifted his arms, putting his hands on Qui-Gon’s shoulders. 

The kiss ended, but Qui-Gon remained close, oh so close, nuzzling his cheek, his jaw.  “That’s better,” Qui-Gon murmured. “Will you be with me, my love?  Will you be in this moment with me?”

“Yes,” he whispered, and lips descended on his own once more.  That was better, the warmth was better.  Suddenly he wanted more of it, craved it, and parted his lips.  A warm tongue invaded his mouth, sliding along his own tongue, darting out to tease his lips before diving in again.

Qui-Gon broke the kiss, breathing hard.  The life-force of the older man was like a tangible thing, like the beating of wings.  “Oh, gods.  Obi-Wan…”

“Yes,” he said again, and smiled.  That was right.  Still needed more, something more, something he was reaching for… 

Obi-Wan reached, putting his hands on Qui-Gon’s face, pulling the man back down for a kiss that was _searing,_ this time, with the heat it drove into his body, chasing away the cold.  He laughed into Qui-Gon’s mouth, his turn to plunder, exploring with his tongue while Qui-Gon’s hands found their way to Obi-Wan’s waist, pulling him closer.

He was delighted; it seemed he couldn’t stop smiling, and he halted the kiss only long enough to climb into the older man’s lap.  Obi-Wan could feel an insistent, trapped erection that was as hard as his own, and it made him laugh again.  Really, who wouldn’t seek this out?  Who would be stupid enough not to at least _try?_

“Both of us, I’m afraid,” Qui-Gon answered the unvoiced thought, his hands working to unbind the sash still tucked around Obi-Wan’s waist.  The sash was gathered slowly, a slide of fabric over fabric over skin.  Qui-Gon wound the silk into a roll over his own hand with the same methodical dedication Obi-Wan had always witnessed, and eventually copied on his own.  Tabards were then slid from his shoulders, and Obi-Wan readily lifted his arms so that Qui-Gon could pull both layers of black tunics up over his head.

Obi-Wan let his finger trace the off-kilter line of Qui-Gon’s nose, then the upturned, gentle curve of the other man’s lip.  “Not anymore,” he said, and bent his head, exploring the taut column of Qui-Gon’s neck with his lips, tasting salt from sweat and the faint hint of moldy dirt from the lower levels.  Qui-Gon gasped, putting his hands on Obi-Wan’s back, his nails gently raking Obi-Wan’s skin.  Underneath dirt and sweat was the earthen sweet of Qui-Gon Jinn, and Obi-Wan licked a broad swath back up with his tongue before biting down on the lobe of Qui-Gon’s ear.  There was a sharp, whimpered curse in response, one that Obi-Wan relished hearing.

For a moment that feeling of dislocation swelled, and Obi-Wan shut his eyes, clenching his jaw.  No more, not that, _please._   “Call me back,” he whispered, uncaring at the desperation lacing his voice.  “Please make me feel like I’m here!”

“You _are_ here,” Qui-Gon insisted, his hands gripping Obi-Wan’s shoulders, dipping his head.  He latched onto a nipple with his teeth, and Obi-Wan arched his back, shocked by the rush that went through his entire body. 

Qui-Gon purred, still biting down, and gave a gentle tug that left Obi-Wan ready to shout in reaction, the feeling was so intense.  He panted for breath, burying his hands in Qui-Gon’s hair.  “Do that again!”

Qui-Gon obliged, and Obi-Wan did shout, then, something unintelligible, his hips jerking.  Then a tongue licked the now very sensitive nub, and he whimpered, grinding his erection against Qui-Gon’s and wrapping his arms around the older man’s head. 

 _Hmm,_ Qui-Gon said in his mind, a simple sound that was nonetheless dripping with expectation and teasing heat.  Then he licked Obi-Wan’s nipple again, his tongue flickering back and forth, repetitive and restless.  Obi-Wan thought he was going to climb out of his _skin_ as each lap of Qui-Gon’s tongue sent electric shocks down his spine.  Most of them went straight to his cock, and he was bucking helplessly against Qui-Gon, who was encouraging him with a firm, kneading hand on his ass. 

When Qui-Gon thrust with him, Obi-Wan couldn’t help the shocked, pleased moan that emerged from his throat.  Qui-Gon growled against his skin, his teeth gently nibbling, his tongue soothing.  _Come for me,_ he said, a rumbling purr in his mental voice that Obi-Wan had never heard before in his life.  To his body it was like a rock falling into a still pond.  Obi-Wan cried out, shuddering, driving against cloth-covered steel as he sought release.  Qui-Gon moved with him, rocking them both, and when he came it was like falling. 

No.  Flying.  It was flying on the wind, a whispered plea and Qui-Gon’s name on his lips, and light itself touched him.  For one, brief second, Obi-Wan was alive, truly, and he _knew it._

The second passed.  Qui-Gon was cradling him in his arms, running his hands through Obi-Wan’s hair, kissing Obi-Wan’s lips with gentle, exploratory touches.  He opened his eyes to an ocean of blue, and smiled. 

“Where are you?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice soft.

“Here,” Obi-Wan replied, putting his hand over Qui-Gon’s heart, feeling the rapid staccato beat under his fingers.  “I’m right here.”

 

**Equilibrium**

Obi-Wan remained in bed while Qui-Gon took a shower, feeling languid but no longer lost.  Instead, it was more as if his body were running at the pace of a living being again, which was ridiculous. 

He’d been upset to realize Qui-Gon hadn’t come, but his former Master had merely grinned and said that the night was still young.  It was; Obi-Wan knew that like he knew his own body and name, and the feel of the Force when he reached for it.  Two hours past midnight.  But tonight was not crow-time.  It was _his_ time. 

When Qui-Gon emerged with a towel around his waist, the ends of his hair dripping wet, Obi-Wan tilted his head, confused.  “Your hair is _still_ the wrong color—or maybe the right color.  What did you do?”

Qui-Gon shook his head, amused.  “I did nothing.  When you healed my wound, you really, _really_ overdid it.  And you’re right, by the way.  Jeimor is an ass.”

“You can hear Jeimor?”  Obi-Wan sat up, stunned.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon said, bending down and kissing Obi-Wan.  His beard was still wet, and left damp spots behind on Obi-Wan’s skin and lips.  “He’s enthralling,” Qui-Gon drawled, which made Obi-Wan laugh.

He took his own turn in the ‘fresher, glad to remove the grime of the lower levels from his body.  The skin on his face had bristled out again, also acting like it intended normal growth.  He shaved in the shower by feel and memory, momentarily entranced by sensory input: the water striking his skin, running down his body; the feel of laser-sharpened metal caressing his skin; scraping sounds from the razor as it met coarse hair; water bouncing off of tiled walls and shower floor.

Obi-Wan lowered the razor and transferred it to his left hand, and his psychometry flared up with unexpected clarity:  a memory of Qui-Gon holding it just after shaving the entirety of his beard off, gazing in the mirror.  Looking at his face, which was older now than remembered, touching lines of happiness, others of sorrow.  The emotion behind the self-study was clear:  _How long until I see him again?  How much longer is this path?_

Qui-Gon had seemed unconcerned about the regained youthful color of his hair, but Obi-Wan knew he’d probably—unintentionally—added several decades to the Jedi Master’s life.  _Forgive me,_ he thought, blinking water and tears from his eyes.  _Your path may yet be longer, still._

He didn’t realize the straight-razor had slipped until falling water stung his hand.  Obi-Wan looked down in surprise, seeing watered-down blood on his skin, the split lips of a long, deep slice running across his palm.  Obi-Wan watched the cut, blood going from rush to trickle to ooze, but it took long minutes, and the wound itself showed no signs of closing. 

He no longer had the gift of speed-healing that he’d awoken on Geonosis with.

 _Can I die, now?_ Obi-Wan asked the crow, curious.

-You’re already dead, idiot- Jeimor said, his voice filled with the grumpiness of an interrupted sleep.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes.  _Yes, I’m aware of that.  You know what I meant._

Jeimor seemed to be thinking about the answer.  -I don’t think you’ll be taken from this place until it’s time- he said at last.  -But it’ll sure as hell slow you down.  I wouldn’t swan-drive off of any more buildings, either.-

He didn’t know what to think about that.  Instead, he got out of the shower, dried himself, and wrapped his hand in a length of bandage before applying a sealant to it.

Qui-Gon had retreated to the kitchen in the meantime, and when he joined his former Master, Obi-Wan received a smile and a kiss, happy to be given both.  There were two mugs on the counter, and the air was rich with freshly steeped leaves.  For once, Obi-Wan was glad of it.  Warmth sounded great.  Tea sounded nice.  _Breathing_ sounded fantastic.

“How do you feel?” Qui-Gon asked again, when they were both re-settled in the main room.  Obi-Wan eyed one of Anakin’s misshapen electronic creations, perched on a nearby table, its power light blinking despondently.  The heat from his mug made the wound on his hand burn, and sympathetic throbbing was beginning to chime in time with his heartbeat.  He sipped the tea, surprised when there was more flavor to it than he’d been accustomed to tasting. 

“Fast forward,” he said at last, a vague frown on his lips.  “It feels like the last two months have been spent living at high speed, and suddenly that speed is gone.”

-Not entirely- Jeimor interjected.  -Or your ass would be useless.-

“No,” he agreed, tilting his head.  “But I’d have to go digging for it now, wouldn’t I?”

-Yes.  When you need it, it will be there.  But never like before.-

“That could make things difficult,” Qui-Gon said, which startled Obi-Wan; he still hadn’t quite wrapped his head around the fact that Jeimor was now audible to them both.

“It could, but…” Obi-Wan shook his head.  “No.  I’m not thinking about that tonight.”

“Oh?” Qui-Gon asked, putting down his tea mug to look at Obi-Wan curiously.

“Nope.  Tonight’s my night off,” Obi-Wan said, grinning.  “I think I only get the one.”

Qui-Gon stood up.  Obi-Wan watched, taking in the long fall of drying, silver-brown hair, the lines of his skin—fainter now than they had been.  Dressed in a simple, loose beige tunic and a pair of similarly loose darker sleep pants, Qui-Gon was still every inch the Jedi Master, serene and regal, even now.  And Obi-Wan loved him, and that was enough.  For everything.

When his former Master held out his hand, Obi-Wan set aside his own tea and rose to accept it, allowing Qui-Gon to pull him into a warm, comfortable embrace.

“I may never see you again like this,” Qui-Gon murmured, his hands shifting restlessly up and down Obi-Wan’s back.  “Whatever’s to come is almost here, and then…”  Qui-Gon trailed off, refusing to speak the words, but Obi-Wan was well enough aware of what his Master would have said.  “Let me love you.  Let me have this memory.”

 _And the memory for me, too,_ Obi-Wan thought, and the realization filled him with sadness.  But better once than never at all, and he wanted this, to be consumed and filled, surrounded by and submitting to the life-desire of Qui-Gon. 

“You said you’d never tease me that way unless I asked,” Obi-Wan said, pushing away the sadness.  It wasn’t needed, here.  Not ever here, not for this.  “I’m asking.”

That made Qui-Gon breathe out a laugh, and the tension Obi-Wan could feel in his frame went with it.  Then Obi-Wan’s face was taken in warm, callused, beloved hands, and his lips were pliant against the gentle, insistent pressure of his lover’s kiss.

“Not out here,” Obi-Wan said, and took Qui-Gon’s hand, leading them both into the Master’s bedroom.  If there was a last time for them now, he wanted it there, again.

Qui-Gon seemed delighted by the choice; he waved his hand at the bank of candles that sat on a side table, bringing the soft glow of warm, dancing light to the room with barely a thought needed.  Then Qui-Gon’s hands were on Obi-Wan once more, dipping his fingers below the waistband of his leggings, pulling down and allowing the material to slide down Obi-Wan’s skin.

“Mm, you’ve noticed,” Obi-Wan said, his eyes shuttering closed as those large hands roamed his body, while lips and the occasional quick dart of teeth explored his throat.

“That you practically purr like a cat when touched?  How your eyes light up when you run your fingers over the simplest of things?”  Qui-Gon nuzzled him gently, ear to collarbone, in slow progression.  “What does it feel like?”

“Like everything,” Obi-Wan said, breath catching as sharp nip caught him unawares, sighing when wet tongue soothed the sharpness away.  “The things I touch don’t need to speak to tell a story.”

Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan’s right hand, the one that remained unbandaged, and placed it upon his chest.  Qui-Gon’s heartbeat was a soft repetition of sensation against Obi-Wan’s palm, the rhythm a touch faster than it might normally have been.  “What’s my story, then?”

“Long and varied,” Obi-Wan replied, standing on his toes to offer kisses of his own, relishing the feel of the short beard against his lips and skin, the softness of cheek, the curve of brow.  “Ongoing, filled with so many chances.”

“I just want this one,” Qui-Gon whispered, momentarily crushing Obi-Wan against his chest in a fierce embrace. 

“You have it,” Obi-Wan said, and pulled them both down onto the rucked sheets, cool and soft and still full of the lingering scent of both of their bodies.  “All of me, for all of you, this time.”

Qui-Gon nodded and dipped his head to kiss the inside of Obi-Wan’s elbow, which made him laugh in surprise from the ticklish nature of it.  But then the same light kiss was placed upon the inside of his wrist.  The sensation it brought to mind was like melted warmth, with dancing chills racing up his arm in stark contrast. 

Obi-Wan returned the favor, laying a joyful kiss on that broad chest, earning a pleased, pleasured rumble from Qui-Gon.  He ran his hands across broad shoulders, down long, wiry, well-muscled arms.  There were new scars, here and there, and Obi-Wan let his fingers trace each one as he re-learned the feel of this beloved body.  The muscles of Qui-Gon’s stomach jerked where Obi-Wan’s fingers touched, revealing that he wasn’t the only one with ticklish spots.  But what he really wanted…

Qui-Gon was, apparently, intent on keeping him from his goal.  He lowered his body over Obi-Wan’s legs, pinning him down, and then continued his explorations with his mouth.  Slow, circling closer to what both of them wanted, until Qui-Gon’s lips were a soft hint of warmth at the head of his cock.

“There is exploratory, and then there is teasing,” Obi-Wan managed to say the words clearly, despite the fact that his entire body had begun trembling.  He was shivering as if chilled, but felt no hint of cold, and the discrepancy in that was only feeding his desire to be taken _now_.

“Perhaps, but this is neither,” Qui-Gon said, smiling at him, perfect warmth in both smile and in his eyes.  “This is worshipping what is beautiful.”

Without giving Obi-Wan any chance to reply (What _does_ one say to that kind of statement?) Qui-Gon took the whole of him into his mouth, leaving Obi-Wan gasping.  This was something he’d experienced before, briefly, once or twice, while still under the age of twenty-four.  Never, ever, had it felt anything like this.  All-encompassing warmth.  Slickness that slid against him, tongue that probed and tasted and _wriggled_ , which was absolutely scandalous and _Qui-Gon you had better do that again!_

Another rumbling purr, pure smugness, and then that strange wriggle happened again against the head of the glans, that perfect, sweetly sensitive spot on his cock that no one else had ever really explored to such alarming, joyful intent.  Obi-Wan didn’t know if he deserved to be worshipped, but he wouldn’t trade it, wouldn’t give up this moment, for anything.

Qui-Gon took him just to the point of no return, with sparks already shooting behind closed eyes, and then let him go; not abruptly, which would have been a shock, but slowly, a mere bit of skin at a time.  But there was a good reason for it, a fantastic reason, and before Qui-Gon could even ask, he was fumbling around in the drawer next to the bed, certain there had to be some kind of lube _somewhere._

Qui-Gon was laughing at him, his eyes full of delight.  “You’ve grabbed it three times already, love.”

He found the bottle that time, after pulling some of his brain back into his head so it would work properly.  The oil was slick between his fingers, and scented with herbs he couldn’t quite place.  He brought his fingertips to his nose, curious: fragrant mint, green spice, rich fugue of the oil, itself plant-based.  It reminded him of peaceful sunsets, stretched out in a field with nothing more pressing to do than wait for the stars.  “Wow,” he said, still rubbing the oil through his fingers, entranced.

“Some things are worth the extra time and effort,” Qui-Gon said softly, taking the bottle from him.  “Oil is easy to find.  But to infuse evocation into something like this?  That’s harder.  That makes it worth the wait, worth the extra money.”

It was so like everything he remembered of Qui-Gon that it made Obi-Wan’s heart ache, even though he smiled.  To spend the time tracking down a blend like this, even if chances had remained that it would only have ever graced his own large hands…  “It was a good choice.”

“Hmm.  You’re not allergic to larba spice, are you?  That could get inconvenient,” Qui-Gon said, the delight becoming teasing, his smile lopsided.

Obi-Wan laughed.  “Well, my fingers aren’t blossoming red spots.  I do believe we’ll be fine,” he said, and then hissed in a breath as an oil-coated, large finger traced down his skin from just under his sac to his ass, not yet seeking entry, but merely circling, bringing forth tingling, happy reactions from sensitive skin.

“Okay, _that_ is teasing,” Obi-Wan complained, despite the grin on his face.  Then he lost the grin as his breath left his lips, as not one but two fingers entered him in a long, steady movement.  He felt no pain, felt no sense of too full or too fast or too rough.  Instead, he relaxed so bonelessly that it was a long moment before he remembered to breathe again.

“Are you all right?” Qui-Gon asked, and Obi-Wan didn’t need to look to know that the older man was torn between worry and amusement.

“Fucking _excellent_ ,” Obi-Wan replied languidly.  This was strange; it wasn’t the reaction he’d ever had before to penetration.  Usually the languid relaxation came _after_ sex, not before.  But his body was so welcoming of Qui-Gon, any part of him, that it seemed even his pores were opening up for the older man, calling him in. 

“I want you,” Obi-Wan said, lifting his head, staring into deep blue depths.  “Right now.”  No uncertainty, no doubts.  “Just you, inside me.”

Obi-Wan snatched back the bottle, lifting himself up enough so that he could pour oil into his palm.  He reached out with slick hands and captured what he sought.  Qui-Gon shuddered at his touch and closed his eyes, his lips pressed together as Obi-Wan used the oil to massage, tease, and slicken the Master’s long, engorged cock.  Then he grabbed an errant pillow with oil-smudged hands, stuffing it under his hips before lying back.

 _This is what you wanted, and I’m giving it to you,_ Obi-Wan said, and allowed every single bit of passion he felt—pent-up and trembling and shaking like a leaf in a storm—to flood the strange not-link between them.  _I want you to take it, and remember it was given freely.  I want you to remember that you were the_ only _man I ever really wanted to share it with._

 _Gods, Obi-Wan,_ Qui-Gon said, and when he opened his eyes again they were almost black, color lost to desire.  _How can you—_

 _Because I love you, all of you, in every moment of time we have ever been given,_ Obi-Wan said, and reached out with his hand.  Qui-Gon accepted the invitation to touch, letting their fingers slide together.  _Here and now, love.  Right now._

 _Yes,_ he heard, the word repeated in a soundless movement of Qui-Gon’s lips.  He sank down over Obi-Wan’s body once more, letting heat sear the spaces between them but not quite touching.  Obi-Wan responded to the question in the man’s eyes by kissing him, opening his mouth and driving his tongue deep into that waiting cavity.

 _My love,_ Qui-Gon whispered in his mind, and slid into Obi-Wan’s body with a similar thrust.  Again there was no pain; odd, considering how seldom he had done this.  Obi-Wan let go of his breath and held himself still, feeling how their two bodies had come together.  It was like nothing else.  It was like being alive.  It was home and peace, a connection that would bind them for longer than the mere sex would last.  Glorious.

“Breathe for me,” Qui-Gon murmured against his skin, nuzzling Obi-Wan’s cheek with his nose.  “Breathe with me.”

Obi-Wan did, and breathed, and moved with him as their bodies came to understand how the other worked and bent.  Warmth plunged into him with every exhalation of intermingled breath.  Each thrust rubbed against the sweet spot in his body and made his damn toes curl up as he rode the ever-rising wave forward.

“Gods, you’re… you’re beautiful,” Qui-Gon whispered to him, flushed, beads of sweat standing out on his skin.  “So utterly damn beautiful.”

Thick skeins of Qui-Gon’s hair had come loose from their binding, tickling Obi-Wan’s skin.  He ran his left hand through that fall of hair, relishing the feel of silken strands, a part of his Master Obi-Wan had loved even before he’d known that he loved the man, as well. 

“You’re exquisite,” Obi-Wan countered, a smile becoming a gasp as his cock throbbed and ached and warned him that he was close, so close—  He moaned and arched up into each thrust, last semblance of control wisping away, becoming utterly wanton.

His loss of self mirrored, Qui-Gon growled out something incomprehensible as each drive of his cock into Obi-Wan’s body came faster and faster, almost brutal but no less welcome.  The feel of it was incredible, overwhelming.  Obi-Wan’s skin spoke of soft cloth against his backside, long hair swaying against his arms and chest, sweat falling upon him, heat radiating from them both; grunts and moans and sighs of absolute pleasure came to his ears, the whisper and gasp of breath, his name on Qui-Gon’s lips as the wave crested and broke.  He came, shrieking at the sudden, shocking intensity of it, gasping and stuttering as his body pulsed out hot warmth. 

Qui-Gon shuddered, quivering in place before collapsing onto Obi-Wan’s chest with a sound that was like a great, heaving sob.

“Oh, Qui,” Obi-Wan whispered, wrapping his arms around the larger man and holding him as he continued to shake, his own arms were trembling.

Glorious.  Exquisite.  Beautiful.  Everything they had each wanted, had ever wanted.

Obi-Wan’s eyes leaked cold tears that ran down along his temples and into his hair.  “I’m here, Qui-Gon.  I’m right here,” he said, but it wasn’t enough and they both knew it, now.  Force help them.

Never enough.  This was a moment stolen from time.  Nothing more.

 

 

_We are most alive when we're in love._  
_John Updike_

 

The next morning he went out on his own.  He left Qui-Gon still sleeping, a faint frown marring his features until Obi-Wan had planted a soft kiss against unresponsive lips.  The frown had eased, a faint smile replacing it, and Obi-Wan had left the room with his heart feeling lighter than it might have otherwise.

His search didn’t take long; Depa Billaba had been nudging her charge into the habit of early morning meditations in the Serenity Garden.  It was a place of simple lines, stone pathways and elegant greenery.  Every plant, every stone, every seating place, every tree—each had been planted or placed to maximize the feel of a calm, peaceful space.  In his youth, the place had made Obi-Wan itch.  Now, he could let that peace slide over his skin, and welcome it inside.

“Master Billaba,” he greeted her, when Depa rose and lifted a curious eyebrow at his entry. 

“Knight Lars,” she replied, smiling and inclining her head in response to the bow he offered her.  “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to Asa, if I may,” he asked.  He didn’t need to ask permission, but Depa liked manners, and Depa had become all-fire protective of Asajj Ventress, Padawan of her lost student.  Asa seemed to enjoy the byplay, and on some subconscious level, it also seemed to increase her trust in the Jedi surrounding her. 

“As you did so the other day and nothing untoward happened, I see no problem in allowing the two of you to speak once more.”  Depa said the words with measured calm, but there was a great spark of mischief in her dark eyes.

“I am not a mischief magnet,” he retorted, but that was probably a lie.  Considering the way the Security squads seemed to show up out of nowhere when he went on his nightly jaunts, of late…

“You always have been, Knight Lars,” she said, smiling, and bent close.  “The entire Temple is buzzing with the rumors of how you saved Master Jinn’s life.  It is best, I think, that you did not resurrect your old name.  The younglings and the Padawans all adore the legend you’re creating as it is.  Returning from the dead would have been a bit much, don’t you think?”  She gave him a very quick, shocking wink, and then left the garden, leaving Obi-Wan to stand there with his jaw hanging open, looking the absolute fool.

“Master Depa is rather blunt like that, yes,” Asa said, appearing before him with a wide grin on her face.  “Come sit down with me, Ben, or any bugs awake at this hour are going to flood your mouth.”

He laughed and complied, plopping down on the damp grass with careless grace.  “Are you happy, Asa?”

“Surprisingly enough, yes.  I like Master Depa,” she said, tilting her head at him.  “And you’re happy, too.”

“I am,” he admitted.  “Did I not seem to be, before?”

“No, just touched in the head,” Asa replied.  “Sex seems to have been a better influence.”

Obi-Wan choked in surprise, then laughed again.  “Dear Asa, may Master Depa teach you how to be diplomatically, elegantly blunt, instead of just blasting holes into the conversation.”

“I’m certain she will.  In fact, I’m not all that certain she’ll let your Jedi Council _stop_ her,” Asa said, a frown touching her lips.  “I’m grateful, but I don’t know if I want to be the focus of such a vast disagreement.”

“A disagreement it could possibly become, but it would never be anything more than that, Asa,” he said, sensing the old fears, borne of her life-long exposure to the bloodthirsty nature of her planet’s warlords.  “The crotchety Masters might huff and puff, but that would be the end of it.  Depa will be your Master if you wish it.”

“I do, but I…”  She looked away, and when she turned back there was such a depth of sadness in her eyes that it almost took his breath away.  “If I could have the Master of my choice, I’d want it to be you, Ben Lars.”

For a time he could only stare back at her, stunned, as the old realization crashed down on his head once more.  Never to be a teacher, never a Jedi Master, never to see and accept a grand-Padawan into the fold.  Never to walk that path of hope and hardship, danger and ridicule, while faith in the Force drove their every step.

Asajj Ventress, even half-trained and recovering from her stint in the Dark Side of the Force, would be a brilliant student.  _She_ was brilliant, and would make an incredible Jedi Knight, tempered by fires that most Jedi Padawans would never see.

“You and I both know why that can never be,” Obi-Wan said at last, his voice hoarse.

She nodded.  “I do know that.  It’s why I’m grateful for Master Depa, and will accept her offer gladly when we go before the Council together.  But there will never again be anyone in my life quite like you.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” Obi-Wan said, attempting to smile.

“Perhaps,” she said, but her expression remained serious.  “You saved my life, Obi-Wan Kenobi, even when I thought I wanted no such thing.  I will always remember that lesson, and you will always be my second teacher.”

She reached out, taking his hand; he let her, shocked into silence by her words.  “Thank you for the lesson, Master,” she said.  The statement was formal, something Depa or likely Ky Narec had taught her.

Obi-Wan swallowed hard, squeezing her slender, hilt-callused fingers.  It would be the only time he would ever speak the words.  “You are welcome, Padawan.”

 

_We cannot hold a torch to light another's path_

_without brightening our own._  
_Ben Sweetland_

 

In sharp contrast to the Serenity Garden’s careful lines and sparseness, the Wilderness Garden was exactly as its name implied.  The ground had been sown and then left to fend for itself, and the result was a layered forest: fern and moss below, with a blend of knotted vine and close trees above.  There were no paths; if you wanted the peace of a natural clearing in the depths of the wilderness, you had to bloody well forge a path of your own.

Obi-Wan found Yoda in one of those clearings, farthest from the entry and the most difficult spot to get to outside of an actual jungle.  The old Master might have been meditating, but by the time Obi-Wan breached the clearing, after having an argument with a thorn bush, those wide eyes were alert and looking at him.

“Good morning, Master Yoda,” he said, and sat down, leaning back against a rotting stump.  The earth was warm beneath him, and the bright green ground moss entranced him.  The soft vitality of it beneath his fingers had always kept him occupied in the garden long after any enforced meditation had ceased.

“Good morning, _Avatairee_ ,” Yoda replied, and Obi-Wan tried not to flinch.  It was one thing to be called that by the denizens of Coruscant, but hearing that term on Yoda’s lips was unsettling, to say the least.  “A foolish thing you did.”

He raised his chin.  “Saving a life is foolish, is it?  I do not remember that particular lesson, Master Yoda.  You will have to enlighten me.”

Yoda narrowed his eyes.  “Death, a part of life, it is.  Learn to let go, we all do.”

“You think I saved Qui-Gon’s life out of fear?”  _Again?_   “You would be wrong.”

“Oh?”  The tip of Yoda’s right ear raised a fraction.  “Then tell me, you must.”

“Master, if fear had been the driving force in my actions, he _would_ be dead,” Obi-Wan said, and then stood up, driven by the familiar compulsion to find, to seek, to end the Sith.  It was fainter than it had been, but by no means was it inaudible, and it was gaining strength.  By dusk, it would be raging once more.

“If he had died, as I must die…”  Obi-Wan swallowed, but met the old troll’s surprised gaze.  “Then I would not have been alone, when that time comes.”

Yoda had the grace to look abashed.  “Sorry, I am, Obi-Wan.  But alone, you will not be.”

“Not this time, and I know that, Master.”  Obi-Wan knelt before the tiny being, smiling.  “And the Order will need every Jedi that remains.”

“Seen something, you have?”

“Learned, something, I did,” Obi-Wan countered.  “Master Windu told me of the Archive deletions, and the Council’s suspicions that Dooku must have done it, especially in light of what was found on Kamino.  He also gave me full access to the Archives.  It was not helpful for locating the Sith, but I did notice that the Archive deletions have continued.  And the source of that missing data is not external.”

This time both of Yoda’s ears went up.  “In the Temple, the source is?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan confirmed.  “Or at least, it was.  Certain out-of-the-way cities or ports, places on planets that I can recall, even whole planets have gone missing.  Nothing that is strategically significant to the Republic or to the Separatists—these places have no value at all beyond the fact that they exist, and that they are…quiet places,” he said, watching Yoda carefully.  Master Yoda, were he inclined, could have been a Sabacc player of the highest caliber.  He had only the fewest tells…  “Names are missing, also.  It took me some time to fish out the ones that could be reconstructed, but those names correlate to some who are on the Order’s missing list.”

Yoda seemed to grow smaller as he bowed his head.  “Hide this, you can?”

“I can,” Obi-Wan said, struggling with an immense urge to cradle the ancient Master in his arms.  This was worse than he’d been initially willing to believe.  Feeling tears prick at his eyes, he asked, “How big is the Schism, Master?”

“Large enough.”  Yoda sighed.  “Happening since Naboo, it has been.  Believe, many do, that if the Republic falls, Jedi do, also.”

“They’re right,” Obi-Wan said.  “And you must know that, as well, if you know who is leaving.”

“Believe the Republic and the Jedi will fall, I _do not_ ,” Yoda snapped, lifting his head and pinning Obi-Wan with a glare.  “But fool, I am not.”

“They’re insurance, even if the idea to leave is their own,” Obi-Wan guessed, knowing he was right when Yoda’s ears twitched and lowered again.

“Survive, the Jedi will,” Yoda said, calling his gimer stick to his hand and standing up.  “Left the Order officially, no one has, except Dooku.  If need them we do, our friends we shall have.”

Obi-Wan watched him go, saying nothing…but he feared Yoda was wrong.  Those Jedi who had hidden themselves had not done so lightly.

He made one more stop before returning to Qui-Gon’s quarters.  The being in question wasn’t in-Temple, but Obi-Wan believed—he _knew_ —that this was the sole person among his surviving friends that would accept the message for what it was, and would not spend the next several years astonished or creeped out that a dead man had paid a visit.

If he still had the time, he would see them all and damn the consequences, but time had run out.  Obi-Wan had lost two days to unceasing rest, necessary for his recovery, and now the Chancellor’s Senate Gala was at hand, mere hours away.  He was _not_ looking forward to it.  He’d never liked touching strangers under the best of circumstances, and now…

Obi-Wan shook his head and slid the note under the door into Knight Eerin’s room in the Temple, and then slid two credit chits in after the small plast sheet.  He hadn’t signed his name, but Bant would know his writing where Qui-Gon had not. 

 

_We had a bet once, you and I._

_I lost spectacularly, but could only tell you just now._

_And yes, you shameless wench—you were right._

_Love to you, Bantling, my Little Shadow.  May the Force be with you._

_PS — When things settle a bit, tell Garen to take a damn Padawan._

 

Then he turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, and, he found, a smile on his face.

**Closed System**

 

Obi-Wan stared at his reflection in the mirror.  Ben Lars stared back at him, gray-eyed and pale, the silver beads in his braided hair reflecting the light.  “No ash, you,” he said, pointing his finger at the mirror sternly.  “No dust.  Not in front of these people.  Don’t do it!”

His reflection merely glared back at him, finger raised.  Obi-Wan sighed, thinking that he was taking the art of talking to oneself to a high level of _wrong._

He emerged from the ‘fresher to find Qui-Gon and Anakin waiting for him, both fully dressed.  There was not much to do with a standard Jedi outfit to spruce it up, but they had all managed, to some degree.  Anakin’s Padawan braid had been threaded with three blue jeweled beads, in deference to the House of Organa, as he had been issued his invitation to the gala by Bail.  Qui-Gon had foregone his usual half-tail, and his hair hung freely but for two braids, one behind each ear, in intentional mimicry of what Obi-Wan had done to his own hair.

Obi-Wan touched one of the braids with a smile.  “Nifty,” he said, admiring the sheen of silver threads mixed through the renewed brown.  “What are you going to say if anyone asks about your hair?”

“Healthy lifestyle,” Qui-Gon said primly, but his eyes were dancing with mischief.

Obi-Wan grinned.  “You might as well just say ‘Sex,’” he said, and Anakin uttered a snort of surprised laughter. 

“That, too,” Qui-Gon said, voice serene.  “We should go.  The others are waiting.”

The twenty chosen Jedi had elected to arrive separately from the Senators who had invited them, though when it was time to enter the gala, each pair would go in together.  Five speeders were waiting, some of them the personal craft of the Loyalist Committee.  Obi-Wan wasn’t surprised to note that those who had sent Senate-aligned vehicles were part of the clandestine group he’d dropped in on two weeks ago. 

He turned his attention back to the group, whom Mace was instructing on manners.

“Really, Mace, I think we’re all big boys and girls now, and know to eat with our silverware instead of our fingers,” Quinlan Vos was saying, eliciting laughter and smiles.

Mace relented with a smile of his own.  “All right, then.  If any of you choose a companion for the evening that is associated with tonight’s event, please, for the love of the Force, _don’t get caught._   We’re still awaiting the results of yesterday’s announcement, and I’d like us all to appear as innocent and shining as possible.”

“Then why aren’t we leaving Quin here?” Barriss Offee asked, receiving an elbow to the shoulder from Vos. 

“I have a nice, foil-embossed invitation, that’s why,” Quinlan said, rolling his eyes.  “Though I wish Senator Alavar had chosen someone else.  I hate this crap.”

“You and me both,” Mace grumbled, surprising the younger set, but not those who knew him well.  Head of the Order he may have been, but Mace Windu had never been fond of political elbow-rubbing.  Obi-Wan hadn’t known, and learning all of that from Qui-Gon’s uppermost thoughts was fascinating.

“Most of you know each other, but for those who don’t, this is Ben Lars,” Mace said, motioning in Obi-Wan’s direction.

Obi-Wan smiled and crooked his fingers in an abbreviated, cheerful wave, not surprised in the slightest when both Quinlan and Barriss gave him near-identical puzzled looks.  His other hand, being held by Qui-Gon, was immediately noted by Adi Gallia.

“Hah!” she said, turning with her hands on her hips to look up at Saesee Tiin.  “You owe me money.”

“Well, that should give the rumor mill something new to babble about,” Obi-Wan said in an undertone to Qui-Gon.

“Force, I hope so,” Qui-Gon replied, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand. 

Yoda raised one pointed ear, shaking his head.  “Go, we should,” he said, smiling.  “Late we should not be, hmm?”

The twenty of them obligingly split up.  Obi-Wan was amused when Quinlan fought the jostle to make sure he was seated in the rear of the last speeder, next to Obi-Wan, who had settled in behind Anakin and Qui-Gon.  “Can I make sure we’re there first, Master?” Anakin asked, settling his hands onto the controls and lifting them off the platform, the last speeder to depart.

“No, Anakin,” Qui-Gon retorted.  “Just…please, nothing fancy this evening.”

“Yes, Master,” Anakin said with an exaggerated sigh, his enthusiasm for piloting not the least bit diminished by his instructions.

Quinlan, meanwhile, had not stopped staring at Obi-Wan, who was hard-pressed not to laugh at the other man.  Oh, but it was so much _harder_ to rein in his impulses after sundown, and the dusk of evening was quickly giving way to night. 

“So:  You’re Ben Lars, huh?” Quinlan asked at last.

“That’s my name,” Obi-Wan said, smiling but not looking in Quinlan’s direction.

“And you took out Count Dooku all by yourself?”

“That’s what they tell me,” Obi-Wan replied, mentally shoving a laugh back down his throat.

-Behave- said Jeimor, at the same moment that Qui-Gon said, _Don’t tease the man, Ben._

_What?  I am behaving with perfect innocence, I assure you._

His declaration brought a quickly muted chuckle from Qui-Gon, and a snort of derision from Jeimor, who was pacing them somewhere above. 

Quinlan narrowed his eyes.  “Bullshit,” he said at last, and reached out to touch Obi-Wan’s shoulder.  Obi-Wan quickly raised his left hand, catching Quin’s hand with his own.

The spark that erupted in the Force from the contact was so strong it was actually visible for a second.  Obi-Wan yanked his hand back, cradling it with his uninjured right hand, swearing under his breath, eyes watering.

Quinlan was swearing, too.  “Sweet Mother of the Blessed, that fucking hurt!” he yelped.

“Dueling psychometry.  I did sort of wonder what would happen,” Obi-Wan mused, shaking the pins-and-needles sensation out of his left hand.  A moment later, he was pounced on by Quinlan Vos, who grabbed him by the shoulders and planted a huge, wet kiss square on Obi-Wan’s lips.

The speeder tilted at the unexpected shift in weight, then settled back to normal as Anakin compensated.  “Hey, hey!  I’m flying here!  No making out in the back of the speeder!” the Padawan yelled.

“HAH!” Quin exclaimed, grinning so wide it was a wonder he didn’t crack his face in half.  “I knew it was you!”

Qui-Gon turned in his seat, pinning Quinlan with a stern, if faintly amused, glare.  “Why don’t you shout it to the entirety of Coruscant while you’re at it?  And also, he belongs to me.  Get off or I’ll throw you out of this speeder.”

Obi-Wan sputtered laughter as Quin hurried to comply, still as cowed by the Jinn Glare as when they had both been Padawans.  “At least he decided to wait until we were more or less separate from the others.”

“If I hadn’t mastered the art of being somewhat subtle, I would have been dead quite some time ago,” Quin agreed, grinning again.  “Force, look at you!  Where have you been all this time, Obi-Wan?”

“Dead,” he said, and Anakin made a sound that was half-laugh, half-cough.

Quin laughed as well.  “Yeah, so you lot managed to fool _everyone_ into believing.  Now really:  Where have you been?”

“No, really.  Dead,” Obi-Wan repeated, smiling.  When Quinlan only gave him a disbelieving look, Obi-Wan pointed to the far side of the speeder.  The man was Kiffar.  He would undoubtedly understand the significance of what he would witness.

Quinlan turned his head in time to catch sight of Jeimor, who dove down from a cloud layer above to fly alongside the speeder.  “Holy shit,” Quinlan whispered, paling beneath the tattooed yellow _qukuuf_ on his face.  Jeimor regarded Vos with a shining amber eye, cawing once, before he beat his wings and ascended.

The Knight flopped back into his seat, jaw hanging open, eyes wide.  “Your kind only show up when things are about to go to hell in a happy handbasket,” he whispered.

“Different myths for the Kiffar, then?” Obi-Wan asked, curious.  “Most of the legends I’ve encountered babble on about revenge.”  Then he remembered: the woman from the borderlands had mentioned vengeance, too. 

-Yeah, that shit happens a lot- Jeimor commented.  -Some people just get cranky about being slaughtered.-

 _Don’t doubt that in the slightest,_ he thought.

“I…  Yeah,” Quin said, running his hand through his hair.  “In Kiffar lore, avatars come when the need is dire, and the danger is great­­­­—things are progressing that us mere mortals cannot stop.”

Obi-Wan gave Vos’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, careful to shield as much as his psychometry allowed.  He felt echoes from Quin that spoke of a harsh path, and some bad years behind him, and Obi-Wan hissed in sympathy for what his friend had endured.  “Do Sith count?”

Quinlan glared at him.  “Fuck-all, Obi-Wan, killing two Sith isn’t enough for you?”

“Technically, I didn’t kill the first one,” he said, smiling when Quin swore at him again.

“We’re about to land.  I’d bring this conversation to a close, for now,” Qui-Gon told them.

Quinlan frowned at him.  “We’re continuing this later,” he promised.

Obi-Wan nodded, but at that moment he wasn’t certain that there was going to _be_ a later.

**Capacitance**

 

By the time the gala was half over, Obi-Wan was dead certain he had never touched so many beings in his entire _life._   He’d lost count early on, giving it up as a lost endeavor.  There were too many impressions to sort through, and far too many negative emotions, to even contemplate keeping a running tally.  Obi-Wan hadn’t enjoyed this sort of political elbow-rubbing even at the best of times, and this event seemed designed to be off-putting.  The music grated on his nerves.  The food, what he had eaten of it, did not do his stomach any favors.

Senator after Senator after Senator, aides, staff—he found himself touching them all with his fingertips, trying to keep the contact as brief as possible.  The surface thoughts alone were enough to make his head spin.  When he made his way over to greet Garm bel Iblis, in Shaak Ti’s company, his heart was pounding in triple-time, and he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Today’s lesson:  It was possible to be dead and still be physically miserable.

“Are you feeling all right, Knight Lars?” Senator bel Iblis asked.  The Corellian man was giving him a careful once-over, concern warring with caution.

Obi-Wan managed a smile.  Garm bel Iblis was, as always, an open book; he didn’t need psychometry to know that the Corellian wasn’t a Sith.  Iblis had the strength to hide his thoughts, if he wanted to, but the man had a defiant streak a mile wide and wasn’t shy about letting any telepath in range hear what was on his mind.  “I don’t think the appetizers agree with me, Senator.”

The man grinned.  “Try to avoid the green platter.  I do believe they meant that for the carnivores among us who prefer to eat things raw.”

“I will happily bear that in mind,” Obi-Wan replied, dropping into a short bow.  “Senator, Councilor,” he said, and went to go find Qui-Gon.

His former Master was standing with Mon Mothma, her staff, and a few other Senators.  Some were the genuine friends she had made among the members of congress.  Padmé was one of them, who had kept herself occupied speaking to the red-headed Chandrilan Senator while Obi-Wan roamed the gala hall. 

“There you are, Knight Lars,” Padmé said, catching sight of his approach.  “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to.”

“I was waylaid by Senator Jarvis, and then by another Senator, and another, and another,” he explained.  “It seems that, thanks to the Battle of Geonosis, I am somewhat of a…celebrity.”  He managed to put enough drawled, sarcastic emphasis onto the last word to make it sound like an unpleasant biological process.

“Are you feeling all right, Knight Lars?” Qui-Gon asked him, voice mild.  It was through the Force that Obi-Wan could feel the depth of his concern.

He nodded.  “I’m not used to greeting such a large number of people,” he said, which was most of the truth—enough for Qui-Gon, Mon Mothma, and Padmé to understand exactly what he meant.  “Alas, I’m afraid I’ll be introduced to many, many more before the night is over.”

“Think of it like I do, young Knight,” a boisterous man said.  Obi-Wan glanced at Orn Free Taa, who had arrived with his usual female Twi’lek companions on each arm.  Yoda was gliding behind him in his hoverchair, a too-serene expression on his wizened face that spoke volumes about the nature of Senator Taa’s company.

Orn Free Taa grinned, showing off his rounded white teeth.  “Events like these are an excellent networking opportunity.  The more people you know, the more contacts you have, the more favors you can call in!” he added, laughing.

Obi-Wan highly doubted that the rotund Senator was the sought-after Sith Lord, but he extended his hand anyway.  In for a credit…   “Interesting advice,” he said.  “A pleasure to greet you, Senator.”

Senator Taa promptly engulfed Obi-Wan’s hand in his own meaty one, and Obi-Wan was swamped by the big Twi’lek’s primary thoughts.  What the Twi’lek was considering was far less an impression and far more a tidal wave of very detailed imagery.  Obi-Wan couldn’t help it; his jaw dropped.  “You’re thinking about all _that?_   Right _now?_   How the hell can you keep up?!”

Taa’s eyes widened.  “Uh…er—don’t you know it’s not nice to go prying in people’s heads?” he began to bluster.

“No, seriously,” Obi-Wan continued, tilting his head in bafflement.  “How do they all _fit_?  Are you utilizing a pocket dimension?”

“Excuse me,” Orn Free Taa whispered, abandoning that tactic when he realized he was now being stared at by everyone present.  “I suddenly remembered a pressing appointment,” he said, and rushed off, almost forgetting his companions in the process.  Yoda gave Obi-Wan a wink and maneuvered his hoverchair to follow the fat Senator.  Qui-Gon had pressed his lips together, for once almost driven to the point of laughter in a diplomatic setting.

“You don’t look Kiffar,” one of the remaining senators said, eyeing Obi-Wan curiously.

“No, just lucky,” Obi-Wan replied, scrubbing his hands off on his robe.  Somewhere from a perch on the gala hall’s outer shell, Jeimor was laughing uproariously.

The other man nodded his understanding, and Obi-Wan belatedly remembered who he was—Frell Cox, the current representative of the Azurbani system. “Whatever you do, don’t shake hands with Senator Belteeseei.”

“No?” Obi-Wan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” the Kiffar Senator confirmed, shaking his head.  “He likes blood torture.”

“Oh.  Him.”  Obi-Wan grimaced.  “We’ve already met.”  He had, in fact, almost picked up the thin-boned Bratrix and tossed him off of a balcony the instant the Senator’s talons had touched his fingertips.

“I’m very sorry,” the elder Kiffu man said, giving Obi-Wan a sympathetic look.

Anakin joined them a moment later, accompanied by Bail Organa and Bail Antilles.  Antilles had retired years ago, yet still managed to find his way onto the invite lists for a good portion of the Senate’s affairs.  “The sane people seem to be gathering here,” Anakin greeted them all, smiling.

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon remonstrated.

Anakin shrugged.  “I’m merely saying out loud what everyone is thinking, Master.”

Senator Cox nodded.  “While more direct than our brethren might prefer, young Skywalker is speaking the truth.  I’d rather hear that than useless platitudes any day.”

“May the words from your lips be heard by the gods,” one of Mon Mothma’s young aides said under her breath.

“Have you met the Chancellor yet?” Anakin asked Obi-Wan.  For someone who had been raised a slave on a backwater, Anakin had immersed himself into the gala setting like he’d been born attending them.  It would have been unsettling, but Anakin wasn’t there to gain and curry favors.  It was just an extension of his natural exuberance for, well…everything.

“I’ve not had the pleasure, no,” Obi-Wan admitted.  “He always seems to be otherwise occupied.”

Anakin nodded.  “Fortunately for you, I can do something about that.  Come on,” he said, leading the way across the hall.  Obi-Wan followed, curious.  He knew that the Padawan had a friendship of some sort with the Supreme Chancellor, begun after the Battle of Theed and continued throughout Anakin’s apprenticeship.  He didn’t understand it, himself; Palpatine had always struck Obi-Wan as being distasteful company.

“This way,” Anakin said, a smile lighting up his face as they approached a quieter section of the hall.  A small knot of beings were clustered around an older man with snow-white hair.  “Your Excellency, do you have a moment?”

The man in question turned to face them, and Obi-Wan knew him at once despite the passing years; Palpatine of Naboo, who he’d last seen while standing on a landing platform with Queen Amidala, ten years ago. 

Palpatine smiled as he saw Anakin, an expression that appeared to be genuinely warm and welcoming.  If it was a politician’s fakery, then Palpatine’s artifice was brilliant.  “Of course, Anakin!  I always have time for you.”

Anakin grinned and bowed.  “Thank you, Chancellor.  I have someone I wish for you to meet,” he said, waving Obi-Wan forward.  Palpatine looked at him expectantly, but the warmth he’d shown Anakin seemed to diminish.  “Chancellor Palpatine, this is Jedi Knight Ben Lars…my step-brother.”

“Ah, yes!  The unexpected family you gained from your mother’s marriage,” Palpatine said, and to Obi-Wan it was like the temperature of the room plummeted several degrees.  No one else seemed to notice, least of all Anakin.  “And the young hero of Geonosis, as well.  A pleasure, Knight Lars.”

Obi-Wan bowed and then held out his hand, as he had done numerous times since the evening had begun.  “The pleasure is mine, Chancellor.”

The moment the old man’s palm slid against his own, Obi-Wan knew.  Years of training kept him from blinking, breathing, twitching—anything to keep from betraying his shock.  Instead, he sent one single, tight, well-aimed thought:  _I know who you are._

Palpatine tilted his head, a flicker of amusement visible in his eyes, there and gone in the space of a blink.  “I would be quite interested in hearing of your battle on Geonosis first-hand.  Would you be willing to indulge me, Knight Lars?”

Obi-Wan smiled.  Heard and understood, he thought.  “Anakin, would you mind taking over my escort duties for Senator Amidala?  I would hate for the Senator to think I was abandoning her.”

Anakin nodded, cheerful and oblivious to the by-play between Knight and Chancellor.  “Sure, Ben.  She’s with Senator Organa now, so it will be easy to do my job and yours.”  Anakin put a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, then dropped into another short bow before Palpatine.  “Chancellor,” he said.

“Padawan Skywalker,” Palpatine replied, a kind dismissal meant for Anakin alone.  Once he had gone, Palpatine returned his attention to Obi-Wan, his gaze absolutely frigid.  “Perhaps we could talk in private?  As Chancellor, I have a balcony reserved for my personal use, and we won’t be bothered.”

Obi-Wan nodded.  “By all means,” he said, a smooth motion of his hand indicating that the Chancellor should precede him.  He didn’t fail to notice the many dark, glowering looks that Palpatine’s collected entourage gave him as he turned to follow the older man.

The balcony was indeed private, far from the large knots of the gala crowd, and shielded by a force-field from the winds that gusted at this height.  A wrought-iron table with two chairs awaited them; the Chancellor took one seat, gesturing genially for Obi-Wan to take the other.  A droid broke off from serving the main room, approaching and asking with tinny politeness if they wished for drinks.

“No.  Now leave us,” Palpatine said curtly.  “We are not to be disturbed, am I clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Your Excellency,” the droid said, lowering its upper torso in a stiff bow before departing.

Palpatine settled back in his chair, regarding Obi-Wan with icy blue eyes, and every mask of civility slipped from his face.  His skin seemed to sallow as Obi-Wan watched, the whites of his eyes yellowed, and his smile was almost a snarl.  “Well, well.  I have to admit that I thought Dooku would have fared better.  If I’d suspected that he would fall to a mere Knight, I would have dealt with him myself.”

Obi-Wan smiled again.  The Sith wasn’t even going to pretend Obi-Wan didn’t know him for what he was.  That was just fine by him.  “I’m happy to have proven you wrong.”

“Mm,” Palpatine said noncommittally.  “How did you know?  Not even your Order’s Chosen One can discern my identity, and he has spent more time in my company than any other Jedi.”

“I could feel it through your skin,” Obi-Wan explained, not seeing any reason to lie.  “Psychometry can reveal many things we’d prefer to keep hidden.”

“It can, yes,” Palpatine agreed, nodding.  “So interesting, though, that your ability revealed what Master Vos’s cannot.  Tell me:  How did they fake your funeral so elegantly?  Even Master Jinn was convinced of its authenticity.”

“Pardon?” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.  “My funeral?”

The smile-snarl became a frown.  “Don’t be coy.  We are speaking honestly together, you and me, enemy to enemy, drawing the battle lines we will later spill blood over.  I saw enough of you in person, years ago, to recognize you for who you are, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

He inclined his head.  “Fair enough,” Obi-Wan acknowledged.  “Then we both know each other for who we truly are, Lord Sidious.”

“And what are you going to do with that knowledge, I wonder?” Sidious asked.  The jaundiced yellow of his eyes was overpowered by glowing amber as Darkness revealed itself, unmasked at last.  The Sith’s strength in the Force twined about Obi-Wan with black, inky tendrils, seeking to pry into his mind, his body.  Obi-Wan’s shields held firm; he was near-mortal, now, but he was still other, and the Dark Side of the Force could not harm him that way.

“I’m going to stop you, of course,” Obi-Wan said, relishing the glint of frustrated anger that shone in the Sith Lord’s eyes.

Sidious chuckled, an oily, disturbing sound.  “Stop me, then.  We’re here.  I am unarmed, and you are not.  Strike me down!”

The crow-part of himself flared up, making his blood roar in his ears, shouting and victorious:  _Yes, yes!  Here is your goal! Balance!_

Obi-Wan clenched his jaw and forced the sensation back.  The energy that gave him life was not pleased by his refusal, and would not go all the way.  It roiled in the back of his mind, seething.  “That would be very foolish of me, wouldn’t it?” he said, and only the twitch of his right hand gave hint of his internal battle.  “And you’re far from helpless.”

Sidious gave him a considering look.  “How very strange you are, Knight Kenobi.  You do not fear me at all, do you?”

He smiled.  “Nope.”

The Sith Lord smiled back at him.  “When all of this is over…you will.”

Obi-Wan shrugged, slumping down in his chair in a relaxed, careless pose that spoke well of his time in the shadows.  “Feel free to give it your best shot,” he said, putting his booted feet up onto the table.  “I’ll just sit here, hmm?”

“You are either a fool, or so brave as to be foolhardy,” Sidious murmured, touching his bottom lip with his forefinger as he looked at Obi-Wan.  “I could make them all believe you had attacked me, I suppose.”

“You could,” Obi-Wan granted.  The energy he carried was surging up again, but he was allowing it, controlling it, pacing it so it could not consume him.  The mania he usually tried to avoid was present in full-force. 

Baiting a Sith Lord was _fun._  

“There are, however, nineteen Jedi present at your gala tonight who would suspect that something was definitely amiss.  Many of those Jedi would never believe the ruse.”  He lowered his head, staring at the Sith with hooded eyes, a feral smile on his lips.  “And their political standing looks so much better now that the Order has publicly stated that they will not act as commanders for the Republic military, does it not?”

“A minor inconvenience,” Sidious said, dismissive.  “It will not last.”

“No, it won’t,” he replied.  “But it’s amazing what one can do with just a bit of time.”

“You plan on revealing me, then?” Sidious smiled, his eyes almost sparking with suppressed power.  “Will you go running back to your Council to tell them of the Sith in their midst?”

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “No.  Not yet.  After all, you are a beloved, kind, warm-hearted human being who wants only the best for the Republic.  Who would believe me?”

“And what do you want in exchange for your silence?”

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before he began laughing, delighted by the thought.  “I don’t want a thing from you!  What a stupid idea!”

Sidious narrowed his eyes.  “What kind of game are you playing, Jedi?” he whispered.

“The very best kind,” Obi-Wan grinned back, putting his feet back down on the balcony deck and leaning forward over the table.  “The kind that you won’t figure out until it’s far too late.”

Sidious crossed his arms, regarding Obi-Wan with something far too close to fondness.  “Are you certain that we could not work together, Obi-Wan?  I think we could do much for each other, and for the Republic.”

The smile on his face vanished as if it had never been.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Obi-Wan stated flatly.

Sidious nodded.  “I had to ask.  You intrigue me, you see.”  He bent forward, and their faces were mere inches apart.  The Sith’s breath was like the stink of rotting flesh.  “I can kill you any time I like,” he hissed, the words both threat and promise.

Obi-Wan smiled in the face of it, unswayed by the Darkness that surrounded them both like a dank, dirty cloud.  “You’re certainly welcome to try.”

“Your pardon, Your Excellency,” a woman called, clearing her throat just after speaking.

They both turned, masks in place, Ben Lars and Chancellor Palpatine once more, with no one else the wiser.  Sly Moore, one of the Chancellor’s aides, stood in the open doorway.  “Please excuse the interruption, Chancellor, but I thought you would like to know that it is time for the speeches to begin.”

Palpatine nodded.  “Yes, of course.  Thank you, Madam Moore.” 

He rose from his chair, looking like nothing more than an aging old man with a careworn face, possessed of tired, pale blue eyes.  “Knight Lars.  I am sure we will meet again.”

Obi-Wan smiled and bowed his head, the only deference to the man’s rank he was now willing to give.  “I look forward to it, Chancellor.”  He watched Palpatine walk away in the company of Moore, smile fading.  The impulse he had been controlling was truly alert now, stirred up like a hornet’s nest struck by a stone.  He touched his fingers to his face, and they came away coated with ash.

Taking a moment to make sure he remained unobserved, Obi-Wan abandoned his chair and leapt over the balcony railing.

 

 _The trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool._  
_Stephen King_

 

For hours, he roamed the mid and lower levels of Coruscant, pacing along alleyways and walkways and old streets like a great cat, restless and prowling.  Sometimes he thought he saw dusted faces, hidden beneath cloaks, but he would look again and they would be gone.  It was just as well.  They were all shadows down here.  It was safest, that way.

Rain started the third time he received a gentle nudge from Qui-Gon, asking what had happened, what was wrong, where he’d gone, but Obi-Wan turned away from each query, closing out that part of his Force sense.  He couldn’t answer.  He didn’t know _how_ to answer Qui-Gon.  He wasn’t sure if an answer even existed!

Obi-Wan came to a halt at the crumbled end of an old roadway, panting, his breath leaving his nostrils like jets of steam.  Rain was pouring down, so much that he was drenched in minutes, but he barely noticed.  There was only the Sith in his thoughts, and the reality that had come crashing down upon him moments after leaving the gala. 

“I can’t do this,” he whispered.

-Well, you already knew that- Jeimor told him.  A moment later the crow landed on a broken support beam a few feet above Obi-Wan’s head, pecking idly at crumbling duracrete in hopes of an insect snack.  -Question is, can Skywalker do it?-

Obi-Wan sat down on the edge, letting his legs swing out over the endless-seeming chasm below.  He’d been to this specific place once before.  Soon, he’d return.  One more time. 

“I don’t know.  I know he won’t want to believe it.”

-Well, you’ll just have to make him believe it, then.-

“Sounds simple enough,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

-Hey, you want to make plans, you find a planner.  I’m just a bird.-

“You’re not _just_ anything,” Obi-Wan countered, smiling.  He looked out over the expanse of ruin before him, dilapidated buildings that had once been as pristine and clean as the upper levels of Coruscant.  He’d always wondered what had influenced the early denizens of Coruscant to build new on top of the old, over and over again.  If they had been trying to reach the sky…  Well.  Five thousand years later, and they still had a long way to go.

  “The truth is, Jeimor…”  He lifted his face and closed his eyes against the rain.  “No matter what happens, it’s too late.”

He wasn’t surprised by the question that floated out of the darkness, or the presence that accompanied it.  “What’s too late?” Quinlan Vos asked.

Obi-Wan managed a terse smile as Quin melted out of the shadows, lowering the hood of his rain-drenched cloak.  “You’re like a clingy bad date, Master Vos.  How’s Aayla?  I meant to ask, earlier.”

Quinlan grinned.  “She’s good.  She’s taking a rotation on Geonosis as one of our first-line guardsmen, keeping an eye on the Separatists just in case they try to surprise us.  Been Knighted for over a year now.”

“I’m glad.  Told you that you’d do fine,” Obi-Wan said, feeling the sharp twist of remorse that reminded him, yet again, that there would be nothing like that for him.  No Padawan, no friendship earned through years of work and trust. 

Everything felt like dust.  He could taste it, breathe it.  

“You’re still sly about subject-changes.  What’s too late?” Quin asked again, sitting down next to Obi-Wan.

“The Republic,” Obi-Wan said, watching his friend carefully.  “It’s dying.”

“Ah,” Quin replied.  There wasn’t so much of a flicker of surprise in his eyes, no fluctuation in the Force.  “I know.”

“Do you?”

Quinlan shrugged.  “Some of us have been trying to tell the Council that for the past year.  Maybe a year and a half now, I don’t know.  My Master, for one.  Some of the Corellian crew, for another.  On Coruscant it was never obvious, but out there?”  Quin spat over the chasm edge.  “We can see it.  We’re right in the middle of it, living those moments that will lead to collapse.  It’s textbook clear, but the general consensus seems to be that the Republic _can’t_ fall.”

Obi-Wan tilted his head, considering.  If Quinlan was right—and he had no reason to doubt the young Master’s word—then the Council had refused to see what their own had been telling him.  It had taken a dead man and his crow to show them what none had wanted to see.  Was it willful blindness?  Fear?  Obi-Wan thought about Palpatine’s skillful manipulations, the trust he’d cultivated in Anakin, the power he held by way of Senate control and popular opinion.  Mere subterfuge, perhaps?  
            It didn’t matter, but it was frustrating.  It also meant that the schism in the Order was larger than he or Yoda had suspected, if the Council couldn’t even take the word of its own people as warning and truth.  “I need you to do me a favor, Quin.”

“Oh-ho, he wants a favor,” Quinlan chuckled.  “Why am I not surprised?”

“Please,” Obi-Wan said, turning his head to stare directly into the eyes of the man who had been his friend during the last, harsh years of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship, first as a senior Padawan, and then as a new Knight.  “I’m not asking lightly.”

“I know.”  Quinlan shook his head and pulled out a stick of tabac, lighting it up and taking a long drag before sighing.  Smoke left his mouth in wisps.  “Ask.”

“When the time is right, go and see Bail Organa.”

Quin blinked in surprise.  “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Obi-Wan nodded.  “Nice, easy favor.  Will you do it?”

“Sure, but how will I know when the time is right?”

“You’ll just know,” Obi-Wan said, lifting his arms in an expansive shrug.  “That’s all I can tell you.  It’s all that I know.”

“Just a feeling, huh?” Quin took another drag from the tabac.  “Fuck, I hate those sorts of feelings.”

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan agreed, nipping the tabac neatly from between Quin’s fingers and taking a short drag on it himself.  He twisted his lips at the flavor; Quinlan’s taste in that regard hadn’t improved over the years, and this was a vile _havao_ blend.  “In the meantime, go here,” he said, handing Quin a strip of plast with city grid coordinates on it.  “Go and meet these people.  You, and those like you, need to know that not everyone on Coruscant has been blind.”

Quinlan glanced at the string of numbers and whistled.  “Wow.  Downstairs.  You seem to do a lot of playing in the lower levels of late, Kenobi.”

“It’s dark down here,” Obi-Wan replied softly, feeling the ebb and flow, tug and pull, of the energy that gave him breath.  “Always dark.”

**Deceleration**

 

Bail Organa returned to his apartment long after midnight, dashing from speeder to his open doorway with a plast document over his head to keep the worst of the drizzle off.  His apartment was dark, full of long shadows.  And that damned crow was standing on his desk again.  “Oh, what do you want?” he grumbled, tired and ill-tempered after so much preening and posturing from his fellow representatives.  Some days he felt less like a statesman, and far more like he was trapped in some bizarre, unending nightmare of a beauty contest.

“Hi, Bail,” Obi-Wan whispered, stepping out of the shadows.  Bail jumped, swore, and then rushed forward, shocked by Obi-Wan’s appearance.  He’d seen his friend through some morose moods during their respective childhoods, but never had he seen Obi-Wan look so _defeated._

“You’re soaking wet.”  Bail shook his head and pulled Obi-Wan’s cloak from his shoulders.  Obi-Wan merely stared back.  His hair was hanging in lank strands around his face, and his eyes, shadowed by the dark dust he wore, seemed void of all color, flat and dull.  That scared Bail far more than the man’s unexpected appearance.

Bail hung the cloak in the nearest ‘fresher and turned on the heat, hoping the warm, moving air would help to dry it out.  Then he grabbed several towels, handing one to Obi-Wan and wrapping the other around Obi-Wan’s shoulders.  “We missed you at the gala,” he said, keeping his voice mild as he worked with the third towel to dry Obi-Wan’s hair.

“I had a desperate, dire need to get the fuck out,” Obi-Wan murmured in response, finally seeming to take an interest in things.  He lifted the towel he’d been given, wiping his face dry with it.  Dust came off on the towel, but the pattern of crow’s wings on Obi-Wan’s face remained undisturbed.  Bail looked back and forth between towel and skin and decided he was going to forget he’d noticed that detail.

“What happened?” Bail asked, when Obi-Wan’s tangled mess of copper hair was about as dry as it was going to get.  “Did you discover the identity of the Sith?”

Obi-Wan nodded.  “Yes,” he replied, but seemed disinclined to say anything further. 

Bail refrained from sighing.  “Then why are you here, if not to discuss what you learned?”

Obi-Wan smiled, a slight, hesitant expression that brought a touch of color back into his eyes.  “I was wondering if you had time for a game of Dejarik with an old friend.”

Bail closed his eyes for a moment, and his heart ached with memory and remembered grief.  He smiled and looked back at Obi-Wan, a man who had been, and still was, one of his dearest friends.  “Of course I do.  Shall we get rip-roaring drunk while we’re at it?”

Obi-Wan chuckled, pushing his hair back behind his ears.  “That sounds fantastic.”

They played for hours, chewing their way through game after game.  They were fast players, and both of them were good at strategy even if they viewed it in different ways.  Obi-Wan tended to come at the game from the angle of a warrior, fortifying strengths and discerning weaknesses, while Bail played the point of view of a diplomat, using the pieces as alliances and breaking them when the need arose.  Brandy was consumed without regard for health or cost, and after a third glass Obi-Wan’s eyes were more or less the right color again, the shifting blue-green Bail had always admired.  He was still far too quiet, though, his gaze serious even when he was smiling.

“What do you do,” Obi-Wan asked, after his holo-piece bit the head off of Bail’s remaining knight holo-piece, “when you see no way to win the game?”

“That’s generally when it’s time to roll out your Kintan Strider, if you’ve been smart enough to set one up,” Bail replied, hoping that Obi-Wan’s last move hadn’t just destroyed his own Strider gambit.  When playing against Obi-Wan Kenobi, it was one of the only methods that guaranteed Bail Organa a chance at winning.  A _chance._   Sacrificing his strongest piece to win the game had usually been a success about fifty percent of the time.

Obi-Wan sighed.  “Anakin is the Kintan Strider, Bail.”

“I can see how you would be disinclined to act, then,” Bail said, hiding a wince.  He liked Skywalker, and Padmé was genuinely happy with the young Padawan.  The last thing Bail wanted for any of his friends was to see one come to grief.

“It’s not just that, but it is a very large problem.”  Obi-Wan touched the controls, and Bail put his head down on the table after he witnessed the destruction of his karmin worm.

“You.  Bastard,” he grumbled into the wood.  “You just destroyed _my_ Kintan Strider.”

“Whoops,” Obi-Wan said, not in the slightest bit repentant.  “The game’s not over yet, though.”

Bail lifted his head, spying the current arrangement of figures, and groaned.  “That is the worst fucking Dejarik alignment I’ve ever seen.  I don’t think either of us can pull a win out of this, unless you consider winning as having one piece left that is bleeding from several orifices and whimpering.”

Obi-Wan stared at the board.  “There has to be a way,” he whispered, and it was clear that while he was paying attention to the game, it was also a representation of a much larger problem for the Jedi Knight.  “There has to.”

“Well,” Bail scratched his bearded chin, contemplating the mess he and Obi-Wan had created while trying to outwit each other.  “If you can’t sacrifice your strongest piece—or at least, keep it from being a certainty—why not sacrifice something else?  Then make sure your Kintan Strider is in the right place, at the right time…”  He touched the controls on his side of the playing board, and one of his rear pieces came to life, striding forward and clobbering the holo-piece that had eaten his knight.  The holo-piece put his hoofed foot on top of the other piece’s body, clasping its hands together in a victory posture.  “So that the strongest piece wins the game for you, after all.”

Obi-Wan stared at the board; his remaining pieces had slumped in dejection as Bail’s win was confirmed.  “Bail Prestor Organa, you are a fucking _genius,_ ” he said at last, his eyes lighting up with near-manic intensity.

“Did I give you an idea, then?” Bail smiled.  He preferred a touch of mania over despondence any damned day.

“At the very least, the start of one,” Obi-Wan said, leaning back and slugging the remains of his brandy down his throat. 

“Who is he, Obi-Wan?  Tell me.”

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “Not yet.  Right now it would be a death sentence.”

“And you aren’t in danger?” Bail retorted, frowning when Obi-Wan got up and went to the ’fresher, coming back out in the midst of putting his cloak back on.

“Already dead, which _he_ doesn’t know,” Obi-Wan said, his cheerful demeanor returning in full force.  “Thank you for the game, Bail.”

Bail stood up, walked over, and pulled his friend into his arms.  “Thank you for coming to see me, one last time.”

Obi-Wan stepped back, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.  “Last time?”

“Hey, Force-sensitive, remember?” Bail tweaked Obi-Wan’s nose with his fingers.  “I have my moments, and this is one of them.  I know I won’t see you again.  I’m just grateful that you gave me the chance to say goodbye.”

Obi-Wan swallowed hard and nodded, the faint sheen of tears in his eyes.  “Goodbye, Bail,” he said.

There was a clatter of sound in the main room.  Bail glanced in that direction, wondering what had fallen, and saw nothing out of the ordinary.  When he turned back, Obi-Wan had gone.

He smiled, ignoring the tears that fell from his eyes.  The soft light of pre-dawn was starting to make sense of the shadows, turning everything from black to gray. 

“Goodbye, Obi-Wan,” Bail whispered.

 

_It is dangerous to be right in matters on which_

_the established authorities are wrong._

_-Voltaire_

 

Obi-Wan entered his quarters, throwing his cloak over one of the few chairs that Master Gallia and Shaak Ti had snuck in as he had moved piles of flimsiplast back out.  It made the room look semi-lived in and comfortable, if one discounted the sheets of plast still lining the walls, filled with his scrawled notes.  Funny to think he’d been worried that Qui-Gon might recognize his handwriting, but his past self had liked a good keypad better.  Obi-Wan liked the feel of a stylus in his hands, now, the sound the tip made as it scratched marks into plast and paper. 

Jeimor laughed at him.  -You all become such damn hedonists when you come back from the dead.-

He nodded absently, running his hand along the counter of his kitchen, thinking absently that tea sounded comforting, if not necessary.  _Where are you?_

-Eh, back up at the North tower.  There is some damn good eating up here when dawn hits.  You going to go sleep with yon big Jedi Master again?-

Obi-Wan smiled.  _I was thinking about it.  He’s likely paced a hole into the floor, wondering what I’ve found and done._   He shucked belt, sash, overtunic and tabards with swift movements, leaving a trail of clothes on his way to the balcony door.  The sun’s edge was just beginning to warm the sky in the east, the gray giving way to bruised violet.  _Will you please let him know that I’ll be there in a while?_

-I am not a fucking messenger bird.-

_I know.  Please, Jeimor.  I am going to sit down and do something I have not done in far too long—meditate.  Maybe I can gather more insight on the idea Bail gave me._

-All right, all right- Jeimor grumbled.  -Message has been passed along.  He says he is much relieved, but is going to sleep until you arrive.-  The crow hesitated, then laughed.  -He also says to wear clothing.  Fuck only knows why, you’re just going to take it back off again.-

He settled onto his knees on the carpet, taking a deep breath and letting it out.  _It’s for the benefit of those who do not want to pass a naked man in the hallway._

-Heh.  Happy meditating, golden boy.  Want some chimes and water music to go with that?-

 _Fuck you, Jeimor,_ he replied, grinning.  Then, with the ease of long training and ingrained memory, he slipped into a deep trance.

Behind him, the shadows grew larger, and light seemed to flee the room.

 

_The streets were dark with something more than night._

_-Raymond Chandler_

 

Qui-Gon was lying on the couch, forcing his aching, tired eyes to follow lines of text in the book he held.  By the time Anakin arrived home shortly after dawn, he’d managed to read the same page at least five times, and still had no idea what it said.

“Still no news yet, huh?” his Padawan asked, slipping out of his cloak yawning as he hung it on an empty hook.

“Not yet—no, wait a moment.”  He listened, somehow not surprised that it was Jeimor’s caustic voice that he heard.  “They’re back,” he said, sighing in relief.  “Jeimor says that they’ll be here in a while.”

“Well, in the meantime, I’m going to take a nap,” Anakin announced, rubbing at his eyes with one hand as he went straight for his bedroom.  “Give me a nudge when they show up, Master?”

He nodded, giving his Padawan a wan smile.  “I think I’m going to do the same as you.  Obi-Wan will likely have to kick us both out of bed to wake us up.”

Anakin snickered.  “Yeah, well, as long as you two greet each other _before_ I get woken up.”

“Go to bed, Padawan.”

“Good night—er, good morning, Master,” Anakin replied, not the least bit repentant as he shut his door.

Qui-Gon tossed the book onto the table, stretched, and then went to his own bed, stretching out on it without even bothering with the quilt.  The past few weeks had been wearing him down, and becoming nocturnal had not helped the matter.  He closed his eyes and was asleep in the next breath.

 

*          *          *          *

 

A giant fist crashed into his back, jerking him out of meditation with a snap that was like bone breaking.  Obi-Wan fell forward with a pained gasp that ended in a sharp, surprised cry when he smacked into the balcony glass face-first.  He rolled on instinct, reaching for a lightsaber that he didn’t have.  The blade was still on his belt, the belt left hanging on the other side of the room.  It was only a few meters away, but it might as well have been kilometers.

There was a storm in his quarters.  It was the only word he knew to call it, and the sight of it shocked him breathless.  Purple-black energy, sparking with electrical fire, was swirling in the center of the room—a thick, hovering mass made of rage and palpable Darkness.

“Sith—” he tried to say, but the storm expanded to fill the room in the blink of an eye.  Fire was in his mouth and nose, down his throat, burning from the inside out.  He choked on it and on his own scream, unable to voice it because the oxygen in his lungs had become fire.

The next thing he knew, he had been flung through the air, striking the wall hard enough to see stars.  The flash-fire in his body went out, but the in-rush of breath was new pain on ravaged tissue.  He choked, coughing as he curled over his knees, hands on the floor.  He had to get up.

-KID!- Jeimor was shrieking.  -Obi-Wan!-

 _Jeimor,_ he thought, before phantom rocks and hammers beat upon his skin.  His vision was useless; it was like being thrown headlong into a whirlwind.  He was thrown against several hard surfaces, one after another after another.  Each impact felt like he’d fallen through the observatory roof again and again and again, and even the crow’s healing couldn’t keep up with the amount of damage his body was taking.  He smelled fire, felt scorching heat.  Burnt plast.  Shattering metal, wood, steel, tile. 

The storm dropped him on cold floor, and he lay there without moving, stunned and barely conscious.  The silence was loud enough to ring in his ears, but he didn’t trust it.  Silence.  Eye of the storm.  Still in danger. 

His chest was burning with each pained gasp, his heart hammering as it tried to keep blood flowing.  He thought that Jeimor might still have been calling him, but the crow’s voice seemed impossibly distant.

The shriek of tortured metal caught his attention, and he turned his head just enough to see that the tub faucet had been broken open, and water was pouring into the soaking bath he’d never had use for.

Obi-Wan had one moment of confusion before clarity struck him harder than the phantom blows.  _No,_ he thought, just as invisible hands gripped his right arm and began pulling him speedily towards the tub.  He clawed desperately, vainly, at the slick tile with his left hand, fingernails ripping free as he fought the inexorable grip.  _No, no, no.  Not! That!_

He wasn’t lifted so much as thrown into the water, hitting his head on the broken tap as he fell into icy blackness.

**Acceleration**

 

It seemed like no time had passed at all before there was an insistent, repetitive tapping on his window.  Qui-Gon swam towards consciousness, confused by the noise, and in the next moment was mentally bowled over by Jeimor.  -WAKE THE FUCK UP YOU LONG-HAIRED ASSHOLE!  NOW!-

The shout had him rolling off the bed, into a defensive crouch, wide awake as adrenaline surged through his body.  “Jeimor?”

-GET DOWN HERE, NOW!  I CAN’T GET IN THE FUCKING ROOM AND HE _NEEDS_ US!-

“Obi-Wan,” he whispered, launching himself upright and bolting for the door.  _PADAWAN, ATTEND!_ he roared down the training bond, and heard a thump as Anakin fell off the bed in response.

_Master?  Wha?_

_Obi-Wan’s in trouble._   He shoved the balcony door open so hard that it skipped off of its track.  Anakin joined him a moment later, pulling a shirt over his head, his entire being thrumming in the Force as he went into battle mode.

“We’re going that way?” Anakin asked, his lightsaber hilt in his hand.  He’d dressed just quickly enough to be presentable, whereas Qui-Gon had gone to sleep with only belt and boots removed.

Qui-Gon nodded, stuffing his own lightsaber into his sash as he climbed up onto the railing.  “He’s only two levels down, three balconies over,” he said, and leapt.

Anakin swore and jumped after he did, both of them coming down on the rails of the next balcony down, one over.  They repeated the jump, startling a young Padawan in the midst of her morning meditation, and then took one last leap to reach Ben’s balcony.

Jeimor was hovering in front of the door, cawing in rage as he flapped his wings and pecked at the glass.  “Get out of the way,” Qui-Gon ordered.  Jeimor obeyed, turning around and catching an updraft that sent him meters high in seconds.

The glass was black, not clear.  Qui-Gon touched it with his fingertips and felt residual heat that spoke of a short but intense fire.  Anakin read his intention and tucked his face into the crook of his arm to protect his eyes.  Qui-Gon ignited his lightsaber, leaning away as he stabbed the center point of the glass door.

The glass shattered, exploding outward as internal pressure was released.  Black smoke came roiling out, a foul cloud of burnt plast, charred wood, and melting plastic.

“What the hell?” Anakin wondered, stepping through the shattered frame, igniting his own blade and lifting it over his head.

Qui-Gon stepped in behind the young man, his breath held in deference to the smoke.  His eyes widened in disbelief.  The quarters assigned to Ben Lars looked as if a bomb had gone off inside. 

Stunned, he realized that it must have been a very specific sort of bomb.  The plast had been set ablaze, and nothing remained of it but black char and running rivulets of color on the walls and carpet.  What little furniture there had been was lying around in splintered pieces like so much kindling, accompanied by shards of ceramic that had once been cups or plates.  As the smoke finished venting from the room, letting light in, he realized that there was red.  Everywhere.  Spots, drops, and great swaths of Obi-Wan’s blood marred the walls and floor.  He realized that even the walls were dented, as if something large had been thrown against it with great force.

And he could hear water running.

The air had cleared, and he took a breath; the smells that had erupted with that cloud of smoke were now almost unbearable in their intensity. 

 _Drowning,_ he thought, flashing on the Foresight he’d experienced on Bestine IV.  _Oh, gods._   “Obi-Wan!” he yelled, bolting for the ’fresher, Anakin on his heels.

The ’fresher was almost as bad as the main room, and Qui-Gon’s bare feet slid on water-slick tile.  The tiles on the walls were shattered, some of them crushed inward.  The countertop had been ripped from its moorings, and the sink was hanging from the wall, plumbing bent and spraying water. 

The ’fresher had a soaking tub, and the water from the taps—both broken open—was pouring forth.  Water ran over the lip of the tub in a constant waterfall, sending waves across the floor.

A pale hand, smeared with blood, hung over the edge nearest the faucet.

“Oh, Force, no,” Anakin whispered, horrified.

The words jarred him into action.  Qui-Gon splashed across the room to find Obi-Wan floating face-down in the tub, his hair and loose shirt being stirred by the current.  Qui-Gon shoved his arms into the water, seized Obi-Wan around the waist and pulled him out of the tub.  The man was deadweight in his arms.  “Help me!”

Anakin grabbed hold of Obi-Wan’s legs, helping Qui-Gon to carry him over to a clear space on the ‘fresher floor.  “Oh, Force.  Master—” Anakin choked out, seeing Obi-Wan’s eyes as they laid him down on the flooded tile.  They were half-open, unseeing, and Qui-Gon cursed his own lack of understanding as he realized, far too late, what the Force had been trying to tell him.

The water had washed away most of the blood, but there were wounds on Obi-Wan’s face and arms, and the shirt he wore was torn in several places, revealing hints of worse damage underneath.  He was not breathing, and Qui-Gon pressed his fingers against Obi-Wan’s neck to find that there was no pulse beating beneath his skin.

Jeimor flew in, cawing in agitated distress.  He landed on the floor in an awkward fumble that sent water flying, swore, and then started talking a blue streak.  -It was that motherfucking Sith!  Couldn’t get to Obi-Wan any other way, so he just called up a telekinetic storm and beat the shit out of him instead!-

“Will you be able to help him?” Qui-Gon asked, pulling Obi-Wan’s hair from his face, tilting his head back.  It was taking him serious effort to remain calm, working one step at a time.  There was no sign of that fast healing, no hint that Obi-Wan’s wounds would vanish like Ventress’s blaster shot.

Jeimor opened his beak and let loose one of the angriest sounds Qui-Gon had ever heard from a bird.  -I don’t fucking know!  I’ve never had to work in these conditions before!  Just—treat him like you would any other mortal in this situation.  I’ll do what I can- he said, and began to pace back and forth alongside Obi-Wan’s body.

“Anakin, the Council of Six—contact them, right now.  Shout them deaf through the Force if you have to, but get them here.  Now!”  Anakin nodded and sat down against the shattered tile wall, closing his eyes as he reached for the Force to do as he’d been asked.

Qui-Gon called upon the Force, creating a gentle, cresting wave that he pushed from the bottom of Obi-Wan’s lungs to the top, forcing water up and up and out.  It dribbled out of Obi-Wan’s open mouth in slow trickles, all of it red-tinged.  When the last of the water had been forced out of Obi-Wan’s body, Qui-Gon sealed Obi-Wan’s nose with his fingers, pressed his mouth against chilled, unresponsive lips, and forced air back into the man’s lungs. 

 _Breathe,_ he begged, resting his left hand on Obi-Wan’s chest, just over his heart, as he shared another breath.  He heard nothing in return, felt no hint that there was even spirit remaining to hear his words.

 _Don’t you dare,_ he growled, sending a sparking electric shock into Obi-Wan’s heart with the Force.  The muscle contracted once, but not twice.  _Don’t you dare leave this unfinished, damn you!  I’d give the life you gave me back to you if I could!_

Jeimor paused in his angry pacing, cocking his head as if listening to something neither Qui-Gon or Anakin could hear.  -My help will take too long.  Because of what he did for you, this will take days to repair.  Maybe weeks.-

Qui-Gon didn’t pause in his work. _We don’t have that kind of time._

-No fuckin’ kidding.  Chosen One!- Jeimor called, turning one beady eye upon Anakin.  -Help him!-

Anakin blinked at the crow in shock.  “I—I don’t know how!”

-Fah.  Are all prophecy kids fucking useless?-  The crow hopped up and down like an angry toddler.  -Get your ass over here and I’ll show you!-

Anakin nodded jerkily, and approached on hands and knees in the water.  “What do I do?”

-Hands on his chest- Jeimor instructed.  Qui-Gon moved his hand out of the way, letting Anakin’s take its place.  -Keep breathing for him, Jinn.  And keep calling his dumb ass back here!-

Qui-Gon smiled against Obi-Wan’s lips, amused despite it all.  _Obi-Wan,_ he called, stretching out his awareness as far as he could go, searching…

He breathed for them both as Anakin, with Jeimor’s guidance, began the work of healing heart and body, giving Obi-Wan something to come back to.  _Obi-Wan, you_ must _,_ Qui-Gon said, at last finding the faint echo of his familiar spirit.  _Please come back to me!_

Qui-Gon felt something rush past him, _through_ him, just as Obi-Wan’s body arched up.  Obi-Wan’s eyes shot open, and he drew in a breath that sounded like a scream. 

“Easy!” he ordered, catching Obi-Wan’s arms, holding him as Obi-Wan dragged in shrill breath after breath.  Anakin gripped Obi-Wan’s hands and bit his lip in distress.

-Geeze, Kid.  Give me a fucking heart attack, why don’t you?- Jeimor huffed.

Slowly, the tension eased from Obi-Wan’s frame, and the gasps began to gain the sound of regular, if stressed, inhalations.  “An…Ani…” Obi-Wan rasped, and Anakin grinned relieved reassurance at him.  “Qui…”

“Right here,” he murmured against Obi-Wan’s hair, and felt a wordless, soothing touch in the Force from his avatar.  He closed his eyes for a brief moment, returning the Force-caress.

“Great fucking _balls_ ,” he heard Shaak Ti swear.  “What the hell happened to this room?!”

Jeimor looked up as Mace and Shaak Ti, with Adi and Saesee behind them, appeared in the ‘fresher doorway.  -Hiya!- the crow greeted them.  -What took you assholes so fucking long?-

“Sweet Force, Obi-Wan,” Shaak blurted.  “Who the hell did you piss off?”

Obi-Wan breathed out a weak laugh, answering in a whisper.  “Sith…Lord.”

“What?  You found the Sith?” Anakin gasped.

Mace frowned.  “Then you know who the Sith is?”

Obi-Wan nodded, the barest movement of his head.  His strength was returning, but at a snail’s pace.  Mortal pace.

“Well?” Mace put his hands on his hips, glaring down at them.  “Who the hell is it?”

Qui-Gon could feel it when Obi-Wan’s attention turned elsewhere, and Obi-Wan’s gaze went distant.  When he snapped his focus back on Mace, his eyes went wide, filled with dread.  “Mace…” he wheezed.  “Asa.  Where…?”

“Ventress?  Why would— _Sith!_ ” Mace exclaimed, curse and cause.  “Come on!” he growled to the other members of the Council, leading them from Obi-Wan’s quarters at a run.

“Help me,” Obi-Wan pleaded, allowing Qui-Gon and Anakin to pull him to his feet.  “Have to…”  He took one step and would have fallen if they hadn’t still been holding onto his arms.  “Sith-dammit,” Obi-Wan muttered, his breath still rasping in his chest.

Qui-Gon shook his head.  “I’ll carry you,” he said, sensing Obi-Wan’s urgency.  Even through the Force he could feel it, now; Darkness had invaded the Temple, and not just here. 

Obi-Wan nodded, wrapping his arm around Qui-Gon’s neck as he was lifted.  “Where’s your lightsaber?” Anakin asked, noticing that Obi-Wan bore neither blade hilt nor belt.

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “No idea,” he said, as Anakin invited Jeimor to perch on his shoulder.  The crow muttered complaints, but accepted.  “Doesn’t matter.  Just…go.  Please, go.”

They followed three members of the Council at a dead run; Mace and Adi had both used Force-enhanced speed to hurry their steps and were far ahead.  Only Yoda had not put in an appearance, and Qui-Gon was beginning to suspect why.  While they had all been distracted by Obi-Wan’s plight, genuine as it had been…the Sith had moved on to other targets.

Asajj Ventress had become Depa Billaba’s guest as the Council debated her continued training, and it was at her door that they found Yoda.  He was standing in the corridor, head bowed, ears lowered, shoulders hunched.  He gave them a wordless nod, pointing with his gimer stick into Depa’s quarters.

Saesee stayed outside with the ancient Master, while Qui-Gon, Anakin, Shaak Tii, and Ki-Adi Mundi entered the room.  The Dark Side of the Force seemed to be swirling around, casting a gloom that the lights couldn’t diminish.  Depa was seated on the floor, her expression blank, her skin ashen.  Mace was kneeling in front of her, and was cupping her face with his hands.  His eyes were filled with sorrow as he glanced up at them.  “I can’t find her.”

Adi was kneeling next to Ventress, and Qui-Gon sighed as he saw the wound on her head.  The girl’s eyes were wide open and staring, like Depa’s, but the Jedi Master was still alive.  Asajj Ventress was gone.

“Put me down,” Obi-Wan said, and Qui-Gon obliged.  Obi-Wan took several unsteady steps forward before he slumped down next to Ventress.  He lifted her head and cradled it in his lap, bending his face down low so their foreheads were just shy of touching.  “I’m sorry, Asa,” he whispered, his voice thick with grief. 

Adi gave him a sorrowful look.  “This is not your fault, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan lifted his head.  “I brought her here,” he said, and then uttered a bitter laugh.  “Where she’d be safe.”  He shook his head, laughing again, and wiped the tears from his face with a careless swipe of his hand.  “None of us are safe.”

He closed the girl’s eyes, then carefully laid her right hand over her heart, and placed her left arm across her waist.  “Rattatak tradition,” he murmured.  He took the edge of his own wet shirt, wiping the blood from her face and head.  When Obi-Wan had finished, the young Padawan could have been mistaken for someone who was merely resting.

Obi-Wan used Adi’s help to gain his footing, taking several steps to then kneel beside Mace.  The senior Councilor was still searching his former Padawan’s mind for signs of her presence.  “May I?” he asked softly.

Mace glanced at Obi-Wan and nodded.  “Please.  If she’s still there…” He drew in a deep breath.  “Please find her for me, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan reached up, touching Depa’s temple with the fingertips of his right hand.  He closed his eyes, tilting his head, as his psychometry read whatever there was to find.  Qui-Gon found himself holding his breath, hoping…

Obi-Wan dropped his hand, frowning.  “She’s frightened,” he said at last.  “She’s still there, but the Sith drove her so far down into her subconscious it’s difficult to find her.  Keep her with people that she trusts, and reassure her that all is well.  Give her time, let the fear fade, and she’ll come back.”

Mace breathed out a relieved sigh.  “Thank you.”

Obi-Wan gave the Councilor a vague smile, standing up and making his way to the window.  The glass had suffered damage, and was covered in a spiderweb of cracks.  Obi-Wan stared at the glass, his head bowed. 

The next thing Qui-Gon knew, the Knight was giving vent to a fierce, blood-curdling scream.  The glass of the window blew out of the frame, raining down onto Depa’s wooden floors and the duracrete balcony outside with a great shattering crash.

“Gods,” Adi whispered, wide-eyed, as Saesee rushed in, his lightsaber ignited, only to halt in confusion at the lack of threat.

When Obi-Wan turned to face them, the other-essence was roaming free like Qui-Gon had never seen before, a vital, thriving creature that covered Obi-Wan like a second skin.  “There is no stopping the fall of the Republic,” he hissed, and his eyes flashed, green, blue, gray, crow’s amber—all of those colors and yet none of them.  Jeimor, still perched on Anakin’s shoulder, let loose with a raucous caw, as if in agreement.  “Even if the Sith dies tonight, it is too late to save it.”

“Then what good will it do to even bother with the Sith, if the damage is done?” Mace asked Obi-Wan, moving to stand with Qui-Gon and Anakin.  Every member of the Council of Six had entered the room, stopping short at the sight of the full-fledged Avatar before them.

Obi-Wan smiled.  “The difference between life and death, dusk and dawn.  With the Sith, all life suffers, the galaxy shrieks in pain, and stars burn out.  Without the Sith, governments may topple, but the people will remain, able to rebuild what was lost.”

“Dammit, Obi-Wan, who is the Sith?” Shaak Ti all but growled the demanding question.

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “No.  When it’s time, you will all know, but not before.”

“You’re turning into Yoda on us,” Adi said, sighing in frustration.  “Why?”

“Because balance is about choice,” Obi-Wan replied, catching Qui-Gon’s eyes for a moment before he turned his gaze upon Anakin.

Anakin frowned.  “What?  What choice?”

Obi-Wan walked forward, and as they watched, the black dusted wings spread across his face, shadowing his eyes, highlighting the intensity of his stare.  “The choice is yours, and always has been.  You’re going to be presented with a moment in which you must choose a side.  Will it be that of the Sith?  Or that of the Jedi?  Light or Darkness, Padawan Skywalker?” 

Obi-Wan reached up, clasping Anakin’s cheek with his hand.  Anakin froze in place at the touch, staring down at the man who had become his brother.  “I can’t decide for you.  No one here can do that, Chosen One, Skywalker, born of the Force,” Obi-Wan whispered.  “But before you make that choice, remember the bright points in your life,” he said, and Anakin gasped, eyes widening.  Obi-Wan dropped his hand, but leaned forward, whispering something into Anakin’s ear that Qui-Gon couldn’t make out.

“Oh,” Anakin breathed, touching his face where Obi-Wan’s hand had been.

When Obi-Wan came to him, Qui-Gon wrapped his arms around the smaller man and held him tightly, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the cry of denial he wanted to voice.  Almost time.  “Will I see you again?”

Obi-Wan stepped back, looking up at him.  Love and peace shone in those multi-colored depths, and there was a smile on his face that Qui-Gon had never forgotten, and would always remember.  “One last time,” Obi-Wan told him, brushing his fingers over Qui-Gon’s lips.  “But not for all time.”

Qui-Gon pulled Obi-Wan close, bending his head and kissing him, feeling pliant lips and warm breath that intermingled with his own, and it was the sweetest gift, the best thing he could think of in all of the worlds.  Obi-Wan twined his arms around Qui-Gon’s neck and responded to him, opening his heart and sharing the depths of his love.

Qui-Gon gasped, felt tears form and fall from his eyes, as those feelings filled his heart, driving all of the old shadows from his mind.  _I love you,_ Obi-Wan whispered into his mind.  _No matter what happens, no matter what you see…  Remember this moment._

 _I will_ never _forget it,_ Qui-Gon vowed, feeling an intense surge of regret as Obi-Wan pulled away, breaking both skin and mental contact.  _I love you._

Obi-Wan turned and bowed to the assembled Council of Six.  “When it’s time to battle the Sith, Jeimor will come for you,” he said, and held out his arm.  Jeimor launched himself from Anakin’s shoulder, landing on Obi-Wan’s forearm in a flutter of wings.

“You say the Republic will fall,” Ki-Adi Mundi began, expression pensive.  “When?”

“Days.  Weeks.  Months.  Maybe years,” Obi-Wan shrugged.  “I can’t answer that question because I don’t know.  But it _will_ happen.  The death of the Sith will be the death knell of the Republic.”  He laughed again, a manic cackle that made Qui-Gon’s blood run cold to hear, because it was far more Other than Obi-Wan. 

“The funny thing?  It was too late _years_ ago.”

Time seemed to fold, or perhaps it was only his perspective, but when Qui-Gon blinked Obi-Wan and Jeimor were both gone.  He could hear the faint sound of wind against cloth and feather, but that was all.

Yoda looked at each of them in turn, weary-eyed and sad.  “Prepare we must,” he said.  “For both the Sith, and for the future of the Jedi.  Fall with the Republic, we _cannot_.”

“And Ventress?” Mace asked, as he picked up Depa, cradling the woman in his arms.

“The pyre of a Padawan, we shall give her,” Yoda declared, thumping his stick down on the ground.  “One of ours, she was, and honor Ky Narec’s Padawan, we will.”

“What did he do, Padawan Skywalker?” Saesee asked, giving Anakin a curious look.

“Uh…” Anakin swallowed.  “He showed me…times in my life where I was happy.  Things that—things that matter to me.  People I love.”

“An odd choice,” Saesee mused.

“Not at all,” Qui-Gon disagreed, half-smiling.  Reminding Anakin of those things was Obi-Wan’s way of trying to stack the deck in their favor.  As tactics went, it was a brilliant one that did not break the rules he worked under.  “What did he say to you, Ani?”

Anakin gave his Master a shy, hesitant, yet delighted smile.  “He said…  He said that Padmé is pregnant.  That I’m going to be a father.”

 

_It's better to be good than evil,_

_but one achieves goodness at a terrific cost._  
_-Stephen King_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Death by drowning (temporary)


	6. Book 6 - Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To confront the Sith on all sides will be a hard-earned victory, even with an _avatairee._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to publish in February. The observant among you will note that it is not February, but August. Part of the delay came from RL issues (including the joys of dealing with chronic illness when you also have small children), but some of the wait stems from the fact that, at the last minute, I realized I was writing a crap chapter and changed direction entirely. So, er, sorry for that.

 

_History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived,_

_but if faced with courage, need not be lived again._  
_-Maya Angelou_

 

 

Jeimor perched on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, preening the Knight’s hair with his beak.  The grooming was meant to be soothing, but Obi-Wan couldn’t relax, couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom.

Really, he’d walked into his death on Theed easier than he was handling _this._

-Self-sacrifice is easy, the first time- Jeimor said.  -But if the time comes again, you’re aware of just what you’re giving up, and it’s that much harder to do.-

“Have you ever done so?” Obi-Wan asked, curious.

Jeimor cocked his head, thinking.  -Once or twice.  I don’t mind so much, though.  Once you’ve died half a dozen times over, it gets to be old news.-

“So many times?”  Obi-Wan caressed the bird’s neck feathers, smiling at the pleased, gurgled caw that emerged from Jeimor’s throat.

-Hey, this is dangerous shit you crazy avatars do- Jeimor said, laughing.  -Sometimes the bad guys figure out that us crows are helping to keep you here, at least until it’s time to go back.  When that happens, we become targets, too.-

“Well, here’s hoping I haven’t turned you into a target yet again,” Obi-Wan muttered, dropping down from the ledge.  Jeimor launched himself from his shoulder, taking flight, while Obi-Wan fell almost half a kilometer to the crumbling duracrete ground below.

It had taken him weeks to find the place, on a level far, far down into the depths of the city.  Even the lower-level denizens wanted nothing to do with these places, for the air could be toxic, and the creatures that roamed the ruins of ancient Galactic City were voracious things, bearing poison tooth and claw.  Even on a good day, the air stank of mold and rot.

Jeimor had led him to the building, well-hidden within the ruins of an ancient monolith.  If the district borders had existed at this level, it would be tucked between the Senate District and a corner of the Industrial Zone.  Unlike everything around it, the hidden building was well-maintained, and Obi-Wan had sensed that it was far larger than it looked.

Getting inside had been easy; unfortunately, he could gain access only to the top floor, which was dedicated to a hangar bay.  One touch to the hangar bay floor and he’d known with absolute certainty that he’d stumbled upon the Sith’s hidden sanctuary.  The problem had been that, at the time, he’d no clue yet as to the Sith’s identity.  Every impression Obi-Wan had picked up had shown a man in a black cloak, all of his features lost to shadow, the Sith’s voice one he did not recognize.  Dooku had been present, on occasion, and it made Obi-Wan shake his head in disgust when he’d realized that the Count’s visits pre-dated the Naboo invasion.  In other flashes, he had seen the Sith that had killed him, the Zabrak that Sidious referred to as Maul.

He stared at the building, his fingers idly caressing the silver hilt of the lightsaber he carried.  It wasn’t the one he had built as Ben Lars; he’d found the remnants of the black hilt embedded in the wall, its crystals nothing more than sandy bits underfoot. 

This lightsaber had once belonged to Komari Vosa.  Dooku had taken it from his dead Padawan’s hand, presenting it as a set to Asajj Ventress, the gift of one Sith apprentice to another.  Once, the blade had been red, but under Depa Billaba’s patient guidance, red had been replaced by gentle, pale green. 

She would never use it again.  He could think of no better justice for Asa that it be raised against the Sith who had stolen her life.

 _You could always stay outside,_ Obi-Wan offered the crow, crouching at the window he’d used to gain access to the building before.  It was still as he’d left it, locked from the inside with a soft touch of the Force.  He brushed his fingers across the ground and found no impressions save his own, and the window was just as untouched to his senses.  If the Sith had noticed his lair had been breached, he hadn’t deduced the method of entry.

Jeimor came back into view, landing on the dirty, moss-covered ground next to Obi-Wan.  He pecked at a fleeing beetle before glaring at Obi-Wan.  -You’re kidding, right?-

He smiled.  _Just thought I’d ask._

-Yeah, well, that’s nice of you, but stupid.-  Jeimor favored him with a soft squawk.  -Let’s get this show on the road, Kid.  It’s getting to be closing time.-

He nodded, pulling out his comm.  Fortunately for Mace’s budget woes, it would be the last one he would ever need.  There was a data package waiting to be sent, a large, encrypted file that would reveal itself upon voice command only to those he’d programmed it for.  A first message had gone out at dawn to the truly loyal Republic senators within the Loyalist Committee, telling them to gather somewhere safe and wait.

“Voice activation one-one-alpha-jinto-tyree,” he murmured into the comm.  “Send.”

When the package upload was complete, he snapped the commlink in half; unnecessary, perhaps, but it disrupted its signal and prevented tracking.  Obi-Wan didn’t wish to be interrupted by anyone except those whom Jeimor would guide here. 

He gestured, and the window fell open to allow himself and Jeimor entry.

 

 _A man awaits his end_  
_Dreading and hoping all;_  
_Many times he died,_  
_Many times he rose again._

_-Yeats_

 

“This is getting to be tedious,” Garm bel Iblis said, crossing his arms as he leaned back on Bail’s sofa.  The Corellian man had not liked being tasked with a dawn gathering, and liked even less that in the hours since sunrise, there had been no other word from the Jedi Knight.

“Please, try to have some semblance of patience,” Mon Mothma said, not even bothering to open her eyes.  The Chandrilan woman had spent most of the morning meditating, much as a Jedi would have.  Bail had shaken his head; no wonder the Senator could outlast them all in patience and serenity.  “We must trust in our ally.”

Bail kept pacing, ignoring Garm’s sigh of frustration.  He’d managed to convince them all to meet in his apartment, knowing that out of everyone present, he had the best anti-surveillance setup.  There was still a chance that their actions might come under scrutiny, but Bail had a feeling that it wouldn’t really matter.  Not after today. 

His comm terminal chimed for attention, and at the same moment, so did everyone else’s personal commlinks.  “It’s from Ben,” Padmé announced, glancing up at Bail.  They had decided to keep quiet on the nature of Ben Lars’s true nature, if only for the other Loyalists’ comfort.  Besides, it was hard to explain Obi-Wan without actually seeing the _Avatairee_ for oneself.

“Voice confirmation,” Mon Mothma continued, as Bail sat down at his terminal to bring up the message.

“Very large data package, too,” Bail said, noting the size of the encrypted file.  “For those of you who don’t have comms capable of the download, I can bring it up on the main screen.”

Padmé nodded, and at Fang Zar’s gesture, responded to the voice confirmation first.  “Senator Amidala, Padmé, confirmed receipt,” she said.

“Senator Mon Mothma, confirmed receipt.”

“Senator Far, Onaconda, confirmed receipt.”

“Senator bel Iblis, Garm, confirmed receipt.”

“Senator Zar, Fang, confirmed receipt.”

“Senator Terr Taneel, confirmed receipt.”

“Senator Alavar, Nee, confirmed receipt.”

“Senator Tundra Dowmeia, confirmed receipt.”

“Senator Organa, Bail Prestor, confirmed receipt,” Bail said last.

Nine comm units chirped together, and whatever program Obi-Wan had used to send the message time-synced each device.  The message was voice only, and Bail turned the volume up at his station to better hear what had been said.

“Senators:  Greetings.  I wish I could give you better news, but I cannot.  The data package attached to this message will have automatically decrypted as your voice patterns were recognized and confirmed.  Inside is every scrap of evidence there is to substantiate the identity of Sidious, Lord of the Sith, as well as his crimes against the Republic. Sidious is confirmed responsible for the murder of the Trade Federation Directorate, the Flail Incident, the Naboo Invasion, the Outbound Flight disaster, the creation of the Clone Army—”

“Fuck _me_ ,” Garm whispered in shock.

“—the murder of Aks Moe, the murder of Giddean Danu, the assassination attempts on Senators Amidala and Fang Zar, the confirmation of the Office of Republic Security and the crimes that unit has been responsible for.  I know he is guilty of further atrocities, but those are the only ones that can be, without a doubt, proven to the Senate and to the courts.”

Bail whistled; he knew Obi-Wan had continued gathering information, but this was far more than he had suspected. 

“The Confederacy of Independent Systems, while once a legitimate organization addressing real grievances from certain Separatist bodies, was ultimately controlled and masterminded by Count Dooku, formally apprenticed to Darth Sidious under the name Tyrannus.  As some of you are already aware, the Confederacy was meant to lose the war that the Sith worked to orchestrate.  The war was to be nothing more than a smokescreen to cover the fact that the government of the Republic was falling under complete control of the Sith.”

Senator Alavar covered her mouth with her hand.  “Oh, gods,” she murmured, horrified.  “Not the Fallen ones.”

“I give this information to you all freely, but Force as my witness, I have _no idea what you’ll be able to do with it._   The Sith Lord will be dealt with by the Jedi, possibly this very day, for it is their pledge to protect the Republic from the Sith.  But the Sith planned even for this, and his destruction will very likely bring about the fall of the Republic.  I am hoping that you all, the loyal ones among the Loyalists, may be able to alter that fate.  If it cannot be altered, then perhaps the damage can be slowed, giving you time to do what must be done to protect the people you have sworn your oaths to.

“The Sith Lord, called Sidious, is none other than Supreme Chancellor Palpatine.”

Straight pins striking stone would have made louder sounds than everyone in Bail’s apartment in that moment.  Bail realized that his mouth had fallen open.  Never, in all of his years, would he have expected _that._

“May the Force be with you all.”

**Crescendo**

 

Vima Da-Boda, once a Master of the Jedi Order, lifted her head as if scenting the breeze.  The winds were quiet, but even the calmest air spoke to her.  She had not been a Jedi in long years, but to abandon the Force had been anathema.  She still listened, and she heard well.

“It be time,” she said, and her youngest girl nodded, the candlelight shining in her large, luminous green eyes.  Navati wasn’t a child of her womb, but she was a child of the Force, and that was close enough.

Navati touched the new pattern on her face, one Vima had brushed into place that morning.  Tears of black dust ran down her narrow cheeks, but a line of black dust across her lips left her with a permanent smile.  Tears of joy and despair.  “Time for the choosing, Mama Vima?”

Vima nodded.  “Time for many things, daughter-mine.”

Navati stood, pulling her cloak back and revealing her pristine white hair.  “I will tell those who cannot hear you, Mama Vima,” she said, and left.

The old woman smiled, reaching out to the Force.  Old Yoda was there when she did so; he had been touching the Force on Coruscant so often, for so long, that they often found each other this way.  _Time it be,_ she said.

 _Know this, we do,_ Yoda replied.  _See you I will, Padawan?_

She snorted, amused, letting Jamel help her to her feet.  The rebel had dusted his face as well, though he planned far more destructive activities for the day than Mama Vima’s people.  _Not been your Padawan in many years, old troll._

 _Always my Padawan you will be, Vima Da-Boda,_ Yoda replied, unperturbed.  _Many years it has been since Neema was lost to us.  Come home, you should._

She smiled.  Old troll.  _I already be home, Master.  An’ all my children be here._   She still missed her daughter, Neema, like a fierce lightsaber wound to her core, one that could not be healed.  Sometimes she still dreamed of killing the overgrown bastard that had been her daughter’s death.  But in the depths of Coruscant’s slums, with gray and black dust brushed over her skin, she’d found her peace. 

 _Maybe I be seein’ you,_ she allowed at last, watching as all of those who bore dusted faces rose, ready to greet the sun they usually shunned.  _You give that Force-forsaken Sith hell for me, hmm?_

 

_Man is free at the moment he wishes to be._

_-Voltaire_

 

With Jeimor on his shoulder, he walked the length of the great hangar bay.  The silence was unnerving, because he could _feel_ eyes upon him.  Where he was being watched from, Obi-Wan had no idea, but the sensation wasn’t helping his jangled nerves and rippling Force-sense one bit.  He’d never seen the Force in such a state of flux, speaking of so many pivotal points that he couldn’t even sort them all, much less comprehend. 

The crow was unsettled, too, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he muttered nonstop under his breath in his own language.  -He’s waiting for us.-

“After the events of the last twelve hours, I would be very surprised if he were not,” Obi-Wan replied softly.  There was a lift in front of him, a clear outline in the floor with controls inset, the cover open in obvious invitation.  “Remember how we joked about Geonosis being hell?”

-Yeah?-

“We were both wrong.  It’s down here,” Obi-Wan said, and stepped onto the lift.  He activated the control with a booted toe, and the platform descended.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“You folks ready?”

Roshi fingered the trigger guard on her rifle, biting her lip.  She was nervous, but forcing it back as much as she could.  Papa Bavieu would never let her live it down if she choked now. 

Still, she couldn’t help it.  Raids at night, under cover of shadow, were one thing.  This was quite another.

Being in charge of herown _team_ was terrifying.

She clicked on her comm and answered, surprised to find her voice steady.  “Ready, Jamel.”

“Standing by,” Lori’s growl came next.  She was stationed far to the south.

“Ready,” Papa Bavieu said, sounding impatient and tetchy.  Roshi shook her head; her father’s uncle hadn’t taken enough tea with breakfast, and would probably be a Bantha’s arse by suppertime.

She listened as the comm clicked, each of the commanders confirming their readiness.  It was weird to think that Jamel had found so many, but not really a surprise.  The people of Coruscant, all of them, were damned tired of this shite.  The lower-level denizens, especially, were used to being left the hell alone.  You could only push that lot so far before they’d stand up and light the world on fire.

“All right, then.  Check your chronos, and each other, and wait for th’ signal,” Jamel said, sounding fierce and proud all at once. 

She grinned.  They weren’t lighting the world on fire, but certain portions of it would certainly be burning before the day was over. 

 

 

 

 

_When the sword of rebellion is drawn, the sheath should be thrown away._

_-English proverb_

 

“I can’t believe you not only sanctioned this, but refused to divulge this matter the moment it came to your attention!” Mace was yelling.  Yoda looked cross; Anakin looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. 

Qui-Gon half-smiled at his apprentice. Anakin had refused to apologize to the Council for his marriage, or to allow the Masters to speak ill of it, while still maintaining the serene air of the Jedi Knight he was swiftly becoming.  While he would never be a wordsmith like his Master, or his predecessor, Anakin Skywalker was well able to defend his actions without falling prey to anger or fear.  That, of all things, told Qui-Gon of the rightness of his and Padmé Amidala’s joining.

“Dammit, Qui-Gon Jinn, are you listening to me?!”

Qui-Gon turned his attention back to Mace, realizing now that Yoda’s eyes were glinting with quiet amusement.  “No,” he said bluntly.

Mace sighed, rubbing his forehead.  “My friend, I know of your fondness for flouting the Code, especially before the Council, but this is simply _not done_!”

“Unique Padawan, unique situation, Master Windu,” Qui-Gon replied, answering at last.  “And seeing how the event you speak of is well in the past, now, and has only improved my Padawan’s dedication to the Order and to the Light… tell me, Council of Six: what room is there for complaint?”

Adi looked like she both approved and wanted to punch a hole in the wall.  “There is still the issue of the political viewpoint, given that this pairing involves a Senator of the Republic.  Our neutrality—”

“Our neutrality no longer exists, Master Gallia,” he bit out.  “Or have none of you noticed the way the wind is blowing, stirred and directed by a Lord of the Sith?”

“Enough,” Yoda said quietly, treating them all to an intense stare.  “Right the Council is, _and_ right Master Qui-Gon is,” he said, causing Mace to lift his head in surprise.  “Matters little now, this does.  Focus more should we on a bonding, or on the Sith, hmm?” he asked with a tight smile.  “Sith I think is more important.  But youngling—” he pointed his gimer stick at Anakin.  “Flout, Qui-Gon does, but _tells us_ , he does, also.  Hide your love you should not, hmm?”

Anakin lowered his head.  “No, Master.  You’re right; at the very least I should have done the Council the honor of telling you my intent, even if I were to wed without the approval of the Council.  One would think I’d have learned this much from my Master, at least,” he said, and Qui-Gon smiled.  “Besides,” Anakin continued, shrugging and giving them all a self-deprecating grin.  “It seems like lately, everyone knows _anyway_.”

“Some secrets don’t keep very well, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said.  Or thought he said, or tried to, because in that moment he was bombarded by Jeimor, caustic and frantic.

-Oh shit oh shit how the _fuck_ is that possible shit shit SHIT—

Pain struck him, embers and fire and burning, burning forever—

It was work to rise up above that torrent of input, fed through the otherworldly connection Qui-Gon had with the crow.  He became aware that he was screaming, and that it was being echoed, kilometers away, by Obi-Wan.

Then the pain ended as if a switch had been thrown.  He was on his knees, with Anakin’s hands on his back and Yoda’s clawed hand resting on his leg, both of them doing their best to soothe him with the Force.  “No, m’all…” he coughed.  “I’m all right.  Not me.  Not mine,” he said, still trying to gather himself.  He met Yoda’s worried green eyes.  “Something’s gone wrong.”

Yoda nodded slowly.  “Mm.  Feel it, I do.”

“What do we do?  How do we find Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked.  Qui-Gon looked up; his Padawan’s blue eyes filled with trepidation.  “We can’t just leave him to face the Sith alone, Master.”

“I know where they are,” Qui-Gon said, the weight of a surprising new grief pressing down on him.  The images that showed him the way to the Sith were the last things he’d seen from Jeimor. 

The crow had passed into the Force.

 

 

 

**Atmosphere**

The Sith was waiting for him in a room secreted beneath the hangar, one that looked, startlingly, like a throne room awaiting its king.  There were no bright tapestries here, though; all was dark, made of black and chrome, a technological shaping that took nothing of life into account.  What might have been a receiving hallway was bracketed by hulking black stone columns.  The throne itself was simple, a seat that could be mistaken for a large chair if placed elsewhere, but the dais it rested upon denoted its purpose clearly.

Palpatine, Lord Sidious, was standing on the last step of the dais.  He was dressed in the black robes of the Sith, no longer hiding under the Chancellor’s blue of office.  His hood was back, revealing the too-old, sallow, amber-eyed visage once more.  “You are a very difficult man to kill, aren’t you, Knight Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan halted a few feet away from Sidious, just out of reach of arm or lightsaber.  The room was cold, chilled even further by the Sith’s presence and the very atmosphere of the place.  He was reassured by the warm, living weight of Jeimor on his shoulder, who was eyeing the Sith like he was an unfortunate, inedible, species of insect.  “You might say that.”

Palpatine nodded.  “Of course, there are other options.  I would have put them down as ludicrous nursery tales, of course, if Sly Moore had not enlightened me.  And you come bearing the proof on your shoulder.  How interesting.”  Palpatine sneered at them both.  “What do they call you?  Ahh, yes.  _Avatairee._   How… quaint.”

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes.  He wasn’t surprised that Sidious had gained the knowledge of what he was.  It was almost like the power was written onto his skin, once one knew what to look for.  “I’ve been called many things, actually.  You’d be amazed at the number of legends there are, hiding beneath the surface of history.”

“Oh, not at all, Obi-Wan,” Palpatine said, and all the hair on Obi-Wan’s body tried to stand up in protest.  He did _not_ like the sound of his name on the Sith’s lips.  “You see, once Madam Moore had told me the truth of what you are, I discovered that there is a story of your kind even among the Sith.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “That’s not much of a shock, given the Sith penchant for revenge.”

Palpatine smiled.  “Oh, the avatar was not a Sith.  The avatar was working to destroy the Sith in question, a man of near-limitless talent named Darth Travestine.  He knew much of the wisdom of the Dark, Obi-Wan.  It did not take Travestine long to discover the truth of what you represent.”

“And what do I represent to you, then?” Obi-Wan asked, unconsciously taking a step back.

“Power,” Sidious said, and a dark, rictus grin spread his lips.  He held out his hand, haloes of energy crowning his fingertips.  Obi-Wan ignited Asa’s lightsaber, expecting the same lightning that Dooku had attacked him with.  Instead, violet tendrils formed and wrapped around the blade before passing right through his guard to graze his hand.  The merest brushing touch of it burned like ice and fire.  Obi-Wan jerked his hand back, but the tendril moved with him, wrapping around his hand and arm and tearing lines of pain across his skin. 

Then others were approaching, faster than he could move to escape them.  He had no idea how to counter them because he had no idea what the _hell_ they were. 

 _Jeimor, GO!_ he yelled, hoping to at least spare one of them.  The crow took wing, a tendril just missing him.  The purple thread seared through one of Jeimor’s primaries, filling the air with the scent of burnt feather.

“But not just any power,” Sidious crooned.  Obi-Wan hissed as another tendril wrapped his left arm as gently as a lover, bringing torment with its touch.  The lightsaber fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, the blade shutting down as it fell.  Obi-Wan pulled at the damned tendrils with the Force while batting away at the others, succeeding only in slowing them down, not stopping them. 

“Power for the taking,” Sidious whispered.

Anything else the Sith might have said was lost to his own strangled scream.  The tendrils lit up, disappearing into his body.  Obi-Wan dropped to the floor, writhing, blind.  His very essence was being ripped from his bones, his soul stripped from its mooring, his mind was being shredded…

-Oh shit oh shit how the _fuck_ is that possible!- he heard.  Jeimor.  Jeimor, who was still too close, in grave danger.  He didn’t want his friend to suffer this fate.

 _Jeimor!_ he cried, concern for the crow and the memory of what _must_ be done overriding his own torment.  _You have to go!_

-Shit shit SHIT—

The unmistakable sound of a blaster discharge struck his ears, accompanied by the sickening, shocking feel of his bond with Jeimor breaking. 

Gone. 

The crow was gone.  Jeimor was dead.  His irreverent friend, his ebon wing.

“No,” he whispered, tears of pain and grief forming in his eyes.

“Yes,” said Palpatine, and the violet, seeking threads multiplied tenfold, wrapping his entire body in their fiery embrace. 

 

*          *          *          *

 

“This is preposterous,” Senator Taneel was saying, shaking her head as she paced back and forth in front of them.  “We can’t just call a Senate hearing and demand Palpatine’s head on a platter!”

The head on a platter had been Garm’s suggestion.  Bail was inclined to second it, but since the Republic was already on the verge of a war, he didn’t think it was a good idea to begin this particular political battle with violence.

“By the dearest gods,” Mon Mothma said, interrupting what Taneel might have said next.  She was staring down at her comm in horror.  “Bail, you need to turn on the ‘Net.  Right now.”

Noticing the pale cast to the woman’s features, Bail rushed to comply.  “What channel?” he asked, and then realized it didn’t matter.  It was on _every_ channel.

The reporter on-screen, a frazzled looking Devorian woman, was pointing to the fire behind her.  “—just as every other outpost on Coruscant, this building is on fire after an assault by unknown forces just minutes ago.  I repeat: the outposts for the Office of Republic Security have all come under attack in a coordinated, specific assault, resulting in every outpost set ablaze.  We don’t yet have information on any casualties, either military or assailant.  The only word received from the assailants is a repeat of the broadcast message that first brought to light the atrocities the Office has allegedly been committing against those beings who live in the mid- and lower levels of Coruscant.  While the footage is widely disputed, there are many willing to verify its authenticity despite the Office’s insistence that it is only carrying out its mandate.  The difference today,” the reporter ducked as a new explosion sounded in the background, but it was within the already-burning building.  “The difference is that the message was signed by a group calling themselves the Alliance.”

Bail frowned and switched channels, finding the Devorian or other reporters like her in front of different burning outposts.  One channel was displaying a few short seconds of vid footage, capturing the shoot-out between a group of cloned troopers and…

“Oh, Force,” he whispered, spying the dusted faces on every member of the group, even those whose visages were barely humanoid enough to wear it. 

“Our boy has been _busy,_ ” Fang Zar commented, a wry smile on his face.  “I don’t think Coruscant was willing to sit and wait around for us to get our thumbs out of our collective asses,” he said, which made Garm bark out a laugh.

A moment later Bail’s personal secretary darted into the room, looking pale and off-balance.  “There’s someone here to see you, Prince Organa,” Brax said, swallowing visibly.  “She’s unarmed, but she is…”

The visitor in question walked into the room fully cloaked, sweeping around Brax without a second glance before lowering her hood when she reached Bail.  She had large, luminous green eyes and a dusted face, just like the armed rebels on the ‘Net.  Unlike the others, though, the black dust formed both smile and tears.  The result was discomfiting to witness, and Bail brushed unconsciously at his shoulder as he and girl stared at each other. 

“You be the Prestor,” the girl said, and smiled, which only increased the emotional discord created by the dusted expression.  “I be Navati, sent by Mother Vima to see you all.”  She reached into her cloak; Bail took an unconscious step back, while Garm drew his hold-out blaster and took aim, ready to fire if the need arose.

Navati only brought forth two clear, sealed jars.  One was filled with a pale gray substance, the other black.  “Mama Vima says that it be time for the choosing, Prestor,” Navati said, bowing her head.  “This be yours, for you and your friends.  The rest be up to you.”

Bail took the jars, his stomach flip-flopping nauseatingly as he realized what they contained.  “What’s going on, Navati?” Padmé asked in a hushed voice.  She had stood up, and there was a strange, almost reverent expression on her face.

Navati turned and smiled at her.  “Time for the choosing, Senator-wife.  We all be choosing, and the sun will witness it.”

“What does that _mean?_ ” Senator Alavar said, her brows drawn together in confusion.  “And what is she talking about, Padmé?  You’re not even seeing anyone.”

Padmé pursed her lips but said nothing.  Bail shook his head.  “Navati, what will happen today?”

Navati pulled her hood back up to hide her face.  “Many things, Prestor.  The Force will be watchin’ to see who stands where.”  She left without another word, leaving Brax to hurry after her in dismayed confusion.

Bail realized he was staring at the jars, stunned, when hands covered his.  He looked up; Mon Mothma gave him a sad smile.  “My decision was made long ago, my friend.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon was in the lead, followed by Anakin and the Council of Six.  It had seemed wisest and yet foolhardy, once that particular decision had been made; if they all died, then at least half of the Council would still live, and messages awaited each member should they become the _only_ Council.  Anakin had said that their chances were better with all twelve, and had been surprised when no one disagreed with him. 

“Do we sacrifice all of us, or only some of us, Padawan Skywalker?” Saesee had said, his voice soft, his eyes sad.  Qui-Gon had a terrible feeling the Iktotchi Master had already seen some clue as to their fates.  “In the end, we can only do what is best for _all_ our sakes.”

The Councilor’s last statement was running through his head, almost non-stop, when Qui-Gon found the ledge with the near-kilometer long drop.  There were vague shapes in the swirling mist far below.  The weather was turning, befouling the air of the lower levels.  They would need to get inside quickly once they had found the Sith’s hiding place.

Anakin looked down and shook his head.  “I have a bad, bad feeling about this, Master,” he said.

“I do as well,” Qui-Gon admitted, but he wasn’t thinking about dying.  He was, instead, remembering the fierce, desperate words whispered into his ear: _Please make me feel like I’m here!_

“Jeimor’s dead, isn’t he?”

Qui-Gon turned and gazed into the sober eyes of his Padawan.  He knew that Anakin was the last apprentice he would ever take, no matter how much longer he lived, or how Yoda might pester him.  He would never retreat the way he had after Xanatos; he could teach the younglings in the Temple as easily as the classes composed of eager, serious-minded Padawans.  Obi-Wan had seen to that.  He would never shirk his life again, for the gift was too great, and the price too high.

“Yes, he is.”  Qui-Gon acted on impulse, touching Anakin’s cheek with his hand, the way Obi-Wan had done mere hours before.  “I want you to stay here.”

Anakin blinked, his head rocking back in surprise as if he’d been struck.  “What?  That’s ridiculous!  Master—”

“Not for the reason you might think, Ani,” Qui-Gon murmured, stilling the young man’s words.  “You are the strongest of us, for all that some of us still fear that strength,” he said, glancing at Mace as he spoke.  Mace scowled but did not turn away.  “We need that strength for the time to come, Anakin.  The Order will need you more than any of us could ever believe, and you _must_ be there to help guide the Jedi onto a new path when the Republic crumbles.  You and your children are our future.”  _And I want you to be there to see it,_ he thought. 

“Be here to greet those who survive, or be ready to warn the others if we do not come back.”

“But… but… Master,” Anakin spluttered, flustered. “I can’t do that, not without you!  I’m not a Knight!”

Qui-Gon smiled and touched the braid Anakin had once had so much trouble growing in his early years as a Padawan.  It was a short thing, for all that it encapsulated over ten years of teaching, learning, and training.  It was a simple matter to call upon the Force, severing the entwined hairs just below Anakin’s ear.  “Yes.  You are.”

Anakin couldn’t have looked any more surprised if Banthas had begun raining from the sky.  “Master?” he breathed.

“You _would_ conduct the first field-Knighting in three hundred years, right before we face a damned Sith,” Mace grumbled, while Shaak Ti grinned fit to crack her face in half.

“If we live, you can contest my decision before the full Council,” Qui-Gon retorted mildly, far too amused by the poleaxed expression on Anakin’s face.  “In the meantime…”  Qui-Gon pressed the blond braid into Anakin’s unresisting left hand.

“May the Force be with you, Knight Skywalker.”

Anakin swallowed, his throat working, his eyes far too bright.  He nodded jerkily.  “Yes, Master.”

No one spoke congratulatory words out loud, but there were far more smiles for Anakin than frowns as each Councilor jumped off the ledge, choosing to float or fall towards the distant ground. 

Yoda eyed the drop, snorted, and then glared up at Qui-Gon.  Qui-Gon smiled and gave the tiny Master his hand, which Yoda used to nimbly climb into place on Qui-Gon’s back.  Qui-Gon took Yoda’s gimer stick and shoved it into his belt for the trip down. 

“Wait.  Qui-Gon?” Anakin called.

Qui-Gon turned and reacted on instinct, catching the Padawan braid he’d just been given.  Anakin grinned, his delight finally running free in his eyes and in the Force.  “Keep that safe for me, all right?”

 

 _All the great things are simple, and many can be expressed in a single word: freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy, hope._  
_-Winston Churchill_

 

Fire sank into his limbs, glass shattered in his bones, lava poured through his body.  He screamed, over and over, his throat tearing, his body pulled as taunt as a wire and still bending, breaking.... 

Draining.  His life-force was being ripped from him, drained away.  Force-drain. This was Force-drain, an ancient, nightmarish myth brought to life. 

He shrieked in helpless agony, howled desperate refusal against something he could not stop, the worst sort of defilement.  Not his to take, not his, _not his!_

It would not stop.  The pain.  Would.  Not.  _Stop._   The Sith would not stop.  He was Other.  There was plenty to take, far too much to steal.

Because he couldn’t die.  Just like Jeimor had said.  Not until it was time.

 

 

**Diffraction**

From the lower levels they came, streaming up into the daylight like shadows come alive.  They wore cloaks meant to blend in with a city drenched in perpetual night, their faces dusted in gray.  Out into the sunlight they walked: single individuals, pairs, groups, clusters, streaming masses.  The Senate District and the Temple District and the Market District—they filled those places, for they had focus and sway over the Senate Dome, the building central to all.

The largest group of dusted folk surrounded the Dome itself.  The press noticed their similarity to the rebels who had destroyed the Security Squad a mere hour before and pounced, spreading the story that a massive terrorist uprising was at hand on Coruscant.

  Some panicked.  Some came out to see the dust-faced people for themselves, taking vid or pics.  The braver ones asked questions; the braver still borrowed gray dust or powder and joined them, even if they weren’t quite sure what it was, exactly, they were participating in.

Judicial was called, with demands that they come do their job.  The head of Judicial on Coruscant, a very terse individual by the name of Jan Dodonna, politely told everyone to go get fucked.  The Senate had made certain that Judicial didn’t have jurisdiction over Coruscant affairs any longer, and Dodonna already had it on good authority that terrorism was the last thing on this group’s mandate.

When the calls became too annoying, Dodonna shut down the comm, locking his office before meeting with his dust-faced secretary and her girlfriend.  Most of his staff would be joining the throng gathering around the dome.  To participate, to keep them safe; he did not yet know which it was to be.  Perhaps both.

The army was called, but the new Republic military was stationed along the Separatist border, patrolling, performing maneuvers, and generally still learningto be an army.  They were not going to be available any time soon. 

Those options failing, the press continued to observe and debate the group’s purpose.  All the while, Mother Vima watched them dart from vantage point to vantage point, and thought they were all acting like a bunch of drunken hornets. 

At her side, Navati grinned.  “Big, buzzy insects that can sting but are confused as to how to go about it?”

“That’s about the size of it, daughter-mine,” Vima said, smiling as she peered up at the great dome.  The time of choosing was at hand, and there were battles above and below that would reveal the outcome of that choice.  She hadn’t been able to tell young Qui-Gon that this choosing was just as important as the other, because the Jedi already had their task.  No sense asking them to give up too much.

It was up to her people to see to this, and… well.  She wasn’t above influencing folks into getting what she needed for her children, but this was different.  This wasn’t about influence.  This was about providing clarity, something that buggering Sith Lord hadn’t allowed folk in this area of Coruscant for far too long.

“We’re all ready, Mama,” Navati said, giving her a warm, confident smile. 

She nodded, feeling Navati’s tiny hand slip into her own.  They twined their fingers together, and with that, Vima opened herself to the Force. 

 

_A riot is the language of the unheard._

_-Martin Luther King, Jr._

 

Anakin breathed out a sigh, wrapped his arms around his chest, and told himself that everything was fine.  The Force was screaming at him, and he knew he was lying, but his Master had given him specific instructions.  They even sort of made sense.  His first task as a Knight—contested or not—shouldn’t be to disregard everything he’d been told.

His comm chimed, and he snatched it off of his belt.  “Master?”

“Well, if you’re getting into the kinky stuff, you’ve got to let a girl know,” Padmé replied.  Despite the teasing quality of her voice, he could feel… something underneath, some weird underlying tension.

Anakin blushed and grinned.  “Hi, sweetheart.  How’s your day been?”

“It’s been educational.  Listen, I have something to tell you—”

“Yeah, same here, Padmé,” Anakin said, pacing back and forth along the roadway edge.  “I’m standing about a kilometer from the Sith’s door.  Master Qui-Gon and six members of the Council are confronting him right _now_.”

“Confronting—oh, gods.  Anakin:  _Chancellor_ _Pa_ _lpatine_ is the Sith!”

For a moment he merely stared at the comm in his hand, certain he must have misheard his wife.  “I… what?  No.  No, that’s stupid!  That’s not possible, Padmé!”

“It _is_ possible, and thanks to Obi-Wan, I’m looking at all of the evidence that proves it.  Bail and Mon Mothma are presenting it to the Senate right now,” she said, sounding worried, exasperated, and thrilled, all at once.

Anakin lowered his comm-link, staring down into the chasm, as the events of the past twenty-six hours began to make sense.  Obi-Wan hadn’t told them the Sith’s identity because none of them would have believed him.  Anakin didn’t _want_ to believe him. 

Except… 

He was supposed to be there.  He _had_ to be there.  This was what that stupid prophecy was all about.  Obi-Wan had known, and had done his best to shield him from the sharp pain of the betrayal Anakin was feeling in that moment.  Master Qui-Gon, in ordering him to stay away, was just trying to keep him alive. 

But this wasn’t his Master’s choice to make.

 _He was my friend,_ he thought, disconsolate, and allowed the grief to swell.  He’d lost so many friends…

Then there was a whisper in the back of his mind, a voice Anakin usually associated with the Force.  _He uses you._

Had he?  Had Palpatine’s friendship been a mask? 

 _Chosen_ _One,_ the voice whispered.  _Power for the taking…_ it said, and Anakin shivered. 

In the end, the decision was easy to make.  There was, after all, one way to know for certain. 

“Listen, I need to tell you two things.”  He was going to get in so much trouble on his first day as a Knight.  Appropriate, given who his Master was.

“What is it, Anakin?” Padmé asked, and there was no missing that semi-suspicious, yet loving tone.  It was one of the many reasons he’d married her.

“If I don’t come back tonight, name our baby something that starts with an L.  I like L names.”

“But Ani, I’m not… I’m…”  Padmé’s indrawn breath was like a sharp slice through staticky air.  “I’m pregnant?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, realizing there was a huge, sappy grin on his face.  “I was going to wait and tell you in person, but I don’t know what’s going to happen today.  I want you to know that I love you, and you make me happier than anything in all the worlds.  I want our baby to know that I would have loved her, too.”

“It’s a girl?”  Padmé was crying; he could hear it in her voice, and that left him blinking back tears, as well.  This wasn’t the future he’d envisioned for them, nothing like what he’d hoped for.

“Or a boy.  I’m having a hard time figuring it out.”  He frowned for a moment, concentrating.  “It…might be both.  Two L names, then?  I can’t even name a pet robot without insulting it, so that’s as much as my contribution should really be when it comes to naming our kids.”

Padmé laughed, sweet and clear, full of as much delight as sadness.  “Come back to me, Ani.  Promise me,” she pleaded.  “I don’t want to raise our children without you.”

“I promise to try,” he replied, squeezing his left hand into a fist.  The Force was whispering more hints, and he was never going to lie to his wife.  “I love you.”  He turned off the comm and jumped into the chasm.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The Senate chamber had become an oppressive place, and Bail Organa couldn’t remember when that had happened.  It had never seemed that way, when he was a junior Senator learning the ins and outs of Coruscant politics under his cousin’s wing.  Granted, he had been one hell of a wide-eyed idealist even for a crown prince, but never had he felt dismal in this place.

Sometime after Cousin Antilles had retired, when Bail had become both royal representative and Senator.  Sometime after the first Sith had turned up and killed his friend.  That was the closest he could come to an estimation.

Learning that the cause of that oppression had been standing right there in the center of the room, acting as if war was the last thing he could ever want, had been the Chancellor of the Republic, Sidious of the Sith, Palpatine.

Their fellows, presented with the evidence in oratory form by both himself and Mon Mothma, now had digital copies… and were arguing about it.  At full volume.

“I need ear plugs,” he muttered to Mon Mothma, whose serenity looked to be cracking if that thin, steely-eyed frown was any indication.

“I just want to turn the lot of them over my knee and give them sound spankings.  If they’re going to act like children, then I shall treat them like my own three and hope for the best,” Mon Mothma growled in response.

They kept watch in silence, nodding once at Padmé as she went off to comm her husband and give him the news.  It was sort of funny, that.  Now that the rest of their clandestine little group knew that Padmé Amidala had married a Jedi, there was a new deference in how she was being treated.  Bail was glad of that, at least.  There were far too many others in the Senate, and elsewhere in the Republic, who would be happy to ostracize her. 

It was only moments later when the tension in Bail’s shoulders seemed to ease, that the breaths he took weren’t tainted by hot, heavy, lifeless air. 

Mon Mothma lifted her head, glancing around the upper corners of the Chamber.  “The air changed,” she said.  “Did you notice?”

“Yes,” he said.  “So did they.”  Bail pointed; the non-stop squabbling was beginning to cease, as Senators and aides began to pay actual attention to what they had been given instead of arguing with each other.

“Huh.  Jedi Battle Meditation,” Fang Zar said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

“What?  You think the Jedi are behind this sudden, ah, clarity of thought?” Mon Mothma asked.

“Clarity of air, atmosphere, release of the press of emotion—possibly far more.  I believe the Senate has been under severe negative influence,” Zar said, giving them both a thoughtful look.  “Though, I don’t think the Jedi are repelling it.  Nor do I think we’re being influenced in the opposite direction.  I think the Senate blowhards are being given the chance to function for the first time in ages without a Sith’s influence.  Now, they— _we—_ have no guiding hand but our own.”

“You mean, even absent, he was…” Alavar looked pale.  “Gods.”

“Sith and Jedi can both work the Force in similar ways.  Who’s to say a Sith wasn’t using some form of Battle Meditation to push the Senate whichever way he wanted?  He was standing right there, after all,” Fang said, pointing to the Chancellor’s platform, empty save for Mas Amedda, who was suffering a bout of silent, impotent fury.  Of Palpatine himself, there had been no sign.  “Given what I understand from a few of my Jedi friends, influence is easier if your target is right there with you.”

“Then why did it stop?” Alavar asked.  “While I’m glad of the timing, it would seem that if Palpatine were to try to mount a defense of himself, keeping that lot squabbling would be the best way to start.”

Bail shared a glance with Mon Mothma.  “The ones Navati spoke of?” she murmured.

“Mama Vima,” he replied.  “Whoever she is.”

Mon Mothma nodded, sighing.  “We’re damned even if they succeed, aren’t we?”  She motioned out at the tiers of near endless Senate pods, her lips pressed into a thin line.  “The Republic won’t survive this revelation.”

Fang Zar sighed, and literally seemed to grow older before their eyes.  “No, dear.  No, it won’t.”

She nodded, unsurprised by the answer.  She took out the jars of dust that Bail had been given by Navati. 

“What are you doing?” Bail asked, curious.

Mon Mothma dipped her fingers into the first jar, the one that held pale gray dust.  “I told you my choice was made long ago,” she said.  “Now is the time to see it through.  I’m joining the Alliance.”

Bail thought about the data disk that had awaited him some evenings previous, brought to his hand by an overly large crow.  _I think I already made that choice, too,_ he thought, watching as his fellow Senator dipped slender fingers into ash, smearing it across her cheeks as if it were the finest powdered makeup.

Padmé rushed back towards them, her comm clenched in a white-knuckled grip.  She was far too pale, the paint on her lips standing out in stark relief against her skin.  “The Jedi are confronting Palpatine.”

“Shit,” Garm whispered.  “That was fast.”

Mon Mothma nodded and stood, smearing her lips with a black streak that left her appearance hollow-eyed and grim.  “Then we must act now, and push to allow the Jedi to deal with their ancient foe.  Bail, we will need information.”

“I’ll go to the Temple, then.”  Of them all, he was the most well-known among the Jedi.  Even after Obi-Wan’s loss on Naboo, he had visited the Temple often.  “I can let you know the moment there is news.”

“Go, go,” Garm said, standing up and putting on his fierce scowl of a Senate mask.  “We’ll deal with this.”

Padmé joined Bail, staying right by his side as they abandoned the docked Senate pod for the corridors that led to the outer rotunda.  “I’m going with you.”

“I’d be foolish to argue,” Bail agreed.  The last he saw of their allies, Senator Taneel had taken the dust-filled vials from Mon Mothma and was turning her face the color of night.

 

 _Hope is the last thing a person does before they are defeated._  
_Henry Rollins_

 

Jeimor’s memories led Qui-Gon to a building within another, and a small, ground-level window that was hanging open.  He disregarded the window and blew in the hangar’s main doors with a quick, irritated shove. 

Ki-Adi Mundi eyed the doors as they entered, which were collapsing into a crumpled mess.  “Have you forgotten how to be subtle?”

Qui-Gon snorted in response as he followed Shaak Ti and Adi inside.  Yoda was still riding on Qui-Gon’s back, his clawed hand resting on Qui-Gon’s left shoulder.  “Do you really think the Sith isn’t expecting us?”

“Oh, I’d say he’s expecting us all right,” Adi said, and there was no mistaking the mournful tone in her voice.  “Qui-Gon…”

He stepped forward when both Masters motioned him to go first, and knelt at the edge of a lift built into the hangar floor.  He touched Jeimor’s shiny feathers in gentle mimicry of the scratching the crow had once enjoyed.  “I am sorry,” Qui-Gon whispered, scooping up the lifeless body in his hands.  The scent of burnt feathers struck his nose; a blaster shot, most likely, as a lightsaber blade would have disintegrated much of the crow’s body.

“Here,” Mace called, finding an empty crate among the stacks of shipping containers.  Qui-Gon laid the crow on the foam cushioning, closing amber eyes and folding the bird’s wings up into a position of rest.  “We’ll come back for him when this is done,” Mace said, his eyes hard.  Qui-Gon nodded; there was little else to do, now.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the other item that had been lying on the lift platform, bending and picking it up, his jaw clenched.  The lightsaber had once belonged to his sister-Padawan, Komari Vosa, and was last owned by Asajj Ventress…but he could feel Obi-Wan’s Force-signature on it, a fresh imprint.  Qui-Gon had no doubt that both lightsaber and crow had been deliberately placed, a taunt and a lure.  He rubbed his fingertips along the curved silver hilt, staring at nothing as he contemplated the Force, his Padawans, and the role they all had yet to play.

“If the crow is dead, then what does that mean for Obi-Wan?” Adi asked.  “Is he dea—gone, as well?”

Qui-Gon shook his head.  “No.  Not yet.”  He had a terrible feeling that he would be cursing that fact before the day was over.

He clipped Obi-Wan’s lightsaber onto his belt next to his own.  Even if it never found its way back to its owner, Qui-Gon was keeping the blade.

 _Hmm.  Sentimental you are,_ Yoda sent, and the ancient Master’s grip on Qui-Gon’s shoulder became a caress.

 _Yes,_ he agreed, because he was, and there was no shame to it.  “Let’s go,” he said aloud, and stepped onto the lift platform that the Sith had left baited.  The moment all seven of them were in place, the lift came to life, sending them down.

“Oh, that just doesn’t scream trap or anything,” Shaak Ti grumbled, rolling her eyes.  Ki-Adi grinned humorlessly, but otherwise there was silence as the hangar bay floor went ever higher over their heads, and dim lighting took over.  The pervading atmosphere grew colder, filled with a dank, putrid odor that Qui-Gon didn’t recognize, but found disturbing.

The room below was literally straight out of Qui-Gon’s nightmares.  It was dark, not only due to insufficient light, but because every surface was black.  Chrome fixtures were visible here and there, but slick, glossy black tile predominated.  A dais was the room’s largest feature, and on it was an empty chair whose purpose was obvious.

He’d dreamed of this room.  One month after Geonosis.

Next to the throne was an energy cage, just like the one Dooku had used to imprison Qui-Gon.  It had been a lure for his Padawan, drawing Anakin and Padmé Amidala to Geonosis.  With the supposed interference of a Senator of the Republic as his weapon, Dooku had stirred the Separatists to war.

Suspended inside this new energy cage, head and shoulders slumped in unconscious repose, just as in his nightmare, was Obi-Wan.  In the Force, Qui-Gon couldn’t feel him.  With his heart in his throat, he probed at the cage with his mind, and sensed nothing living in that space.   

“Something feels wrong here, Master Yoda,” Saesee Tiin said, his eyes darting around the room.

“Feels wrong here, _everything_ does,” Yoda muttered in response, accepting his gimer stick when Qui-Gon handed it back to him.

The _snap-hiss_ of an ignited lightsaber and the Force screaming a warning sent Qui-Gon to the floor.  He ducked and rolled, feeling Yoda release his grip and tumble off in the opposite direction.  A lightsaber sliced through the air where they had stood a moment before, meant to cleave them both in two.

Qui-Gon had his own lightsaber in his hand as he stood up, igniting the blade in one movement while flinging his cloak aside with the other.  Yoda’s blade was out and ignited, as were Mace’s, Adi’s, and Ki-Adi Mundi’s.

Saesee Tiin was on the floor, crumpled, and in the next instant Qui-Gon felt the Iktotchi Master pass into the Force.  Shaak Tii had not managed to retrieve her own blade; was, in fact, too busy trying to evade the swift, merciless strikes of the Sith’s lightsaber as she leapt out of the way again and again.

“Tii!” Adi shouted, launching herself into the fray, with Mace and Mundi just behind. 

The Sith was a cloaked, hooded whirlwind, a gale force of seeking Darkness that swirled about him like a physical extension of the Sith’s body.  Strangely, only that released Darkness could be felt in the Force.  The Sith himself didn’t seem to exist, but for the fact that he was, undeniably, attempting to kill them all.

Yoda scowled, watching the other Masters battle Sidious, and then his gaze hardened.  “See to Obi-Wan,” he ordered Qui-Gon in a terse voice, striding forward and tossing his gimer stick away with a finality that spoke volumes.  “Need him, we will.”

Qui-Gon hesitated for a breath, torn between the very real danger the Councilors were in, and the near-overwhelming need to touch Obi-Wan’s skin, to see if his love had once more gone from this world.  The decision was easy to make; Yoda was right.  No matter his feelings, they needed the avatar, or this battle was lost.

He turned away, turned his face away from the danger his friends were in, and hardened himself against the sounds of desperate battle.

He was halfway up the dais when Mace died, and the shock of losing his longtime friend almost drove him to his knees.  Instead, Qui-Gon hastened his steps, driving himself forward, using Force-speed to reach the energy cage.  He shoved his lightsaber into the mechanism, disengaged the blade and caught Obi-Wan’s body just as the energy field stuttered and died.

He whispered a relieved curse under his breath as he cradled the man in his arms.  Obi-Wan was still alive, but only with his fingers on Obi-Wan’s skin could Qui-Gon feel his presence.  It was far weaker than it had been, even after the Sith’s attempt at drowning the Knight.

“Stolen,” Qui-Gon said, and then blinked in surprise.  Not his word.  He looked down to find pale gray eyes looking up at him, filled with grieved awareness.  “Obi-Wan?”

 _Force drain.  Not the breaking bones we both once dreamed of,_ Obi-Wan said, his mental voice so faint that it was the barest whisper in Qui-Gon’s thoughts.  _He has what I carried here, Qui-Gon.  He stole what she gave me._   Obi-Wan’s breath hitched, a misstep from a body that should have already been dead, and wasn’t. 

Qui-Gon took in the washed-out, faded pattern of wings on Obi-Wan’s face.  They looked old, rain-washed and destroyed by time.  Without Jeimor, without Obi-Wan’s own strength, there was nothing to keep the crow’s mark from fading. 

The _Avatairee_ would be of no help to them.  They had lost.

Qui-Gon lifted his head, catching sight of the battle once more.  Shaak Tii had gained her lightsaber and was fighting with Adi at her side, both of them working in concert to drive the Sith back.  For a moment it actually seemed to be working.  Then the Sith feinted and brought Darkness to bear; Adi shrieked in anger and pain and fell, injured but not defeated.  Shaak Tii bore up under the Sith’s assault for precious seconds, protecting her friend.

The Sith would have been a frightening opponent on his own, and Qui-Gon had no doubt there would be casualties if things had been normal.  Instead, the Sith flew through the air, streaming that otherworldly energy in his wake, an obscene parody of what Obi-Wan had represented.  Without a sound, without so much as a hint of effort, Sidious was slaughtering the best of the Order. 

Obi-Wan gazed up at him, his eyes washed out and lifeless, filled with sadness.  His breath hitched again when Shaak Tii passed into the Force.  _I’m so sorry._

Adi slammed into the Sith with both lightsaber and body, allowing Yoda and Ki-Adi Mundi to rejoin the fray.  Even injured, the Corellian woman was a force to be reckoned with, and the Sith seemed to realize that.

 _No.  This is not your fault, my love,_ Qui-Gon replied, sensing the grief and the siren-song of guilt in Obi-Wan’s words.  _You didn’t cause this._   He sighed, glad that Anakin was out of this fray, glad that he hadn’t led his Padawan into certain death.

_Don’t give up.  There is still a chance._

Hope flared.  _How can we stop him, Obi-Wan?_  

Adi was flung across the room on a bloom of violet lightning, striking the far wall.  She was out of the fight but not dead; Qui-Gon could sense the Master hanging onto life out of sheer, stubborn will. 

 _We…_ we… _cannot,_ Obi-Wan said, and Qui-Gon couldn’t help but hear the desperate emphasis Obi-Wan placed upon the word.

Yoda was one of the most rapid, most fantastic duelists who had ever lived, though the cost of such energy expenditure was harsh on his frail, tiny frame.  Even he could barely keep up with Sidious.  When the ancient Master saved Ki-Adi’s life, the Sith took the opportunity presented and moved faster than any living being, Force-enhanced or not, should have been capable of. 

 _Not without sacrifice,_ Obi-Wan said, and twitched his fingers.  Qui-Gon understood the faint gesture and took Obi-Wan’s hand in his own.  He swallowed back his grief, and forced himself to watch what he knew was about to happen.

Yoda did not die without one last act of defiance.  Even impaled on Sidious’s red blade, the diminutive being snarled and shoved his lightsaber into the Sith’s form.

_What sacrifice?_

Sidious roared out his anger at being wounded, flinging the tiny body away from him with a rush of wind and the further crack of lightning.  Yoda was gone before he landed, and in the circle of Qui-Gon’s arms Obi-Wan was crying, his eyes leaking silent tears. 

 _Gods, I’m so sorry, Qui-Gon.  There is only one way to end this, and you_ know _what that is._

Qui-Gon stared down at Obi-Wan, blinking his eyes to clear them and realizing he had been grieving for their losses, as well.  _What are you talking about?_  

Then he remembered.  Balance was about choice.  Anakin’s choice. 

_No.  No!  I told him not to come here!_

Then it was only Ki-Adi Mundi standing against the Sith, and he had no chance alone.  In moments he was gone, his spirit a flash of recognition in the Force before there was nothing left but silence.  Adi still lived, but would be of no further help to them. 

Of the seven Jedi Masters who had come to stop a Sith, only Qui-Gon remained.

Sidious shut down his lightsaber, hiding it within the folds of his robe, before approaching the dais.  Qui-Gon thought that the hooded form was like a representation of the element of Malice come to life.

There was a long, almost contemplative moment, in which Jedi Master and Sith Lord regarded each other without speaking.  The silence, the pervading chill, reminded Qui-Gon of ancient tombs, but the smell of cauterized flesh was reminiscent of battlegrounds he had walked, where freshly disturbed earth had turned to blood-red mud.

“Well, well,” Sidious intoned at last.  His voice was rough, but there was silk underneath, and that part was familiar.  “It seems as if it’s just the three of us now, Master Jinn.”

**Immolation**

He’d never felt so helpless.  Had never actually _been_ so helpless; even infants were capable of howling, letting the world know with angry cries that they suffered hunger, discomfort, pain.

Fear.

For himself there was none, but his fear for Qui-Gon was a terrible thing, and he had to force it back down, put much of it away.

Still, his heart fluttered in his chest when Qui-Gon laid him down on the cold ground, standing to face the Sith. 

If Qui-Gon Jinn feared Sidious, he was keeping that entirely to himself.

 

*          *          *          *

 

He’d never felt so helpless, but he would not allow those fears to overcome him now.  Qui-Gon had spent his entire life spitting defiance in the faces of the corrupt.  Something stubborn and innate in his core had already decided that if he were to die, he would do it his way, even if his resistance was limited to the rebellious nature of his last living thought.

Qui-Gon had his lightsaber in his hand but did not bother to reignite the blade.  Sidious had proved himself the better duelist, and Qui-Gon wanted this encounter to last more than a few seconds.  He wanted Sidious to _remember_ it, even if Qui-Gon had never felt so much like a flittering moth veering too close to a great and terrible flame.

Those thoughts considered and dismissed in a breath, Qui-Gon did something he once would have considered suicidal.  With a swift, efficient motion, he tossed his lightsaber away.  A gesture of surrender in other places; here, it was defiance.

The cloaked form radiated amusement.  “So certain as to the outcome of this little war, are you?”

“You take pleasure in defeating people by using their strengths against them.  If I lifted that blade, you would get far too much enjoyment out of my death.  I don’t intend to give you that,” Qui-Gon answered, glad that his voice sounded normal, as if he did this every day.

“You have read much of me in very little time,” Sidious murmured.

“If I couldn’t quickly surmise an individual’s desires and intents, I would have died long ago.”

“And yet,” Sidious whispered the words; they were filled with quiet, secretive delight.  “He surprised you,” the Sith continued, meaning Obi-Wan.  “Your skills failed you, and your Padawan died.”

Qui-Gon smiled.  The cruel words, which once would have hurt so much, were no longer so difficult to hear.  “He was always very good at surprising me.”

“A skill that you, too, seem to share.”

Between one blink and the next, the Sith Lord struck.  With a harsh jolt of painful impact, Qui-Gon found himself pinned against one of the stone columns, the Sith’s hand at his throat and fetid breath wafting into his face.  Sidious was shorter, frailer in structure, but there was no mistaking the immense strength in that Dark body.  Even within such intimate distance, shadows filled the Sith’s cowl, keeping his features hidden from view.

Qui-Gon could move his hands, clench his fists.  The rest of his limbs were frozen, caught in a skilled Force-grip that chilled all of the blood in his veins.

“Long have you proved yourself an irritant to me.  Long have you kept me from my goals, interfering with what is rightfully _mine._ ”  The Sith Lord spat the words up into Qui-Gon’s face, biting rage in each syllable. 

Then the anger vanished.  In its place, Qui-Gon could sense twisted delight.  “I think you should have the opportunity to share in my frustration.”

Still pinning Qui-Gon in place, with the iron-banded Force grip keeping half the air from his lungs, Sidious turned his attention back to the dais.

Back to Obi-Wan.

 

_Submission is not always what it seems._

_–Raziel (Legacy of Kain)_

 

Brave.  Brave and defiant.  Stubborn, too, and oh, how Obi-Wan loved that about his Master.

When Obi-Wan felt his body lift from the cold metal of the dais, it was almost a relief.  The rough Force-grip supported him much as the energy cage had, with the toes of his boots just brushing the ground.  He opened his eyes; Qui-Gon was struggling against the Sith’s hold with all of his strength, his expression pained, his eyes full of frantic denial.  Obi-Wan could sense that Sidious was exerting real effort to keep the recalcitrant Jedi in place, using more energy than he’d expected to need. 

The Sith could think that this entire scenario had fallen into place from his own orchestrations, and Obi-Wan was happy to let him believe it was so.  Not everything Obi-Wan had done as _Avatairee_ held obvious significance.  Jeimor had been the one to whisper such truths into his ear, with dawn just breaking over the horizon.

If Sidious had been given access to everything that Obi-Wan was, there would be no hope.  Not for any of them, regardless of prophecy or the words of the strange woman in the borderlands.

But:  Qui-Gon held part of the otherworldly strength Obi-Wan had carried, visible only in the restored bronze of his hair.  For Qui-Gon, that strength only meant renewed life, a renewed strength of his cells; there was no longer anything ethereal about it.  It would always remain unknown to the Sith.  Untouchable.

The old mania was still entwined with his thoughts, but it was Qui-Gon’s example that gave him the strength to laugh in the face of Darkness one last time.  _There is peace, knowledge, serenity.  There is the Force._

Obi-Wan offered the Sith Lord a wide grin, his lip splitting and dribbling blood down his chin as he rasped, “Give it your best shot, you dried-up fuck.”

 

 

**Dispersal**

At Obi-Wan’s words, violet tendrils of fire left the Sith’s gnarled, bony fingers.  It was only when those violet tendrils wrapped his lover’s body, when Obi-Wan’s abused form seized as if being electrocuted, that Qui-Gon understood what he was seeing.

Force drain.  An ancient myth, a thing of nightmares, written of by the scattered survivors of the ancient Sith Wars.  That was how the Sith had stolen the crow’s ethereal gift.  Sidious was seeking it still, trying to take what tiny fragments might remain.

Obi-Wan was not screaming, could not scream.  There wasn’t life enough left in his body for that.  Qui-Gon wanted to scream for them both as he heard the pained gasps of air that were torn from Obi-Wan’s throat, and witnessed the tortured splay of his hands as the Darkness rent and ripped and destroyed.  In the end they were both silent, for Sidious had locked Qui-Gon’s jaw shut as effectively as he had pinned the Jedi Master in place.  He could only weep frustrated tears as he watched his _Avatairee_ suffer. 

“STOP!”

The sound of Anakin’s voice, raised in firm command, was enough to make him renew his struggles against the Sith’s hold.  _No, not Anakin!  I can’t lose them both—_

Sidious’s response was to slam him hard against the stone column.  Qui-Gon’s cry of pain was wheezed out through clenched teeth, and sharp prods of fire were in his back.  He could taste blood in his mouth.  Broken ribs.  Many.

Then he was dropped, and his legs would not hold him upright.  Qui-Gon collapsed to the cold floor, blowing blood from his mouth when cracked bones and fragile lungs were crushed together. 

He heard a similar, boneless thud, and lifted his head.  Obi-Wan was lying in a crumpled heap on the first and second stair of the dais, unmoving.  The vile purple threads were gone, but there was something final about the way he lay.  As if that nameless woman of the borderlands had felt mercy, and called her servant back at last.

Sidious had turned his attention to the newest Jedi, his dark pleasure in that morning’s events renewed.  “Is that a request, or a command, young Jedi?”

Anakin stood among the bodies of the fallen Jedi, his expression a stoic mask.  His eyes, though, were alight, blazing with his strength in the Force.  The dirty cloud, the mark of his stumbling attempts to remain away from the Dark, was gone.  It had not been mere impulse of the moment when Qui-Gon had severed the young man’s braid.  

“You could consider it both.  As your friend, it’s a request.  As a Jedi, it’s an order… Chancellor.”

Qui-Gon sucked in a surprised breath and then coughed it out again.  He wrapped his arms around his chest against the sharp stabs and deepening pain, struggling to sit up.  Chancellor?  _Palpatine?_

The Sith lifted his hands and pulled back the cowl of his hood, the shadows over his face fleeing with the black cloth.  It was indeed Chancellor Palpatine, benevolent savior of the Republic. 

 _Insane,_ Qui-Gon thought, wiping blood from his mouth with one shaking hand.  _Impossible._

And yet… Qui-Gon narrowed his eyes and looked again.  The Sith’s face was much aged, his skin sagging and yellowed, his eyes amber.  But if Qui-Gon did not focus, all he could see was the aging, careworn face and watery blue eyes of the Chancellor of the Republic.

Force illusion.  By all the blasted gods.  No wonder the Sith had laughed at them. 

Sidious, Palpatine, was smiling at Anakin.  “So!  You know.  How interesting.  Your step-brother must have told you.”

“Actually, no.  My wife told me,” Anakin replied, a battle-ready smile appearing on his face.

That gave the Sith pause.  “Your wife?”

“Yeah.”  Anakin’s smile grew, a victorious snarl that would have made any Corellian rogue proud.  “See, the thing is...  Everyone knows.  My brother told the Senate, and the Senate told everyone else.  I’m not surprised that you missed the news.  Looks like you were busy.”

“And the word of a single Jedi is supposed to sway them all?” Palpatine mused, his voice smooth, a smile on his face.

“Well, there is the little matter of a mountainous pile of evidence Ben Lars put together.  You might have destroyed all the physical copies in his room, but digital copies were already spread out, all over Coruscant.”

“I wonder what hope they think they have.”  Palpatine’s expression had not changed, but Qui-Gon didn’t trust it.  He touched the Force with an unsteady mental hand, stoppering up his bleeding insides as best he could.  Then he looked around for a lightsaber, spying Mace’s blade a short distance away.  If he could put his head together enough to call it to his hand, perhaps he could put a blade into the Sith’s back while Palpatine was distracted.

Anakin turned his head and gave Qui-Gon a sharp look, shaking his head.  “You stay out of this, Master.  This isn’t your fight.  It never was.”

Sidious chuckled, an oily sound that made the hair on Qui-Gon’s body rise in instinctive protest.  Never had he heard Palpatine sound like that.  “Are you going to arrest me, Anakin?”

Qui-Gon’s apprentice raised his chin.  The fierce, delighted snarl of battle had faded,  replaced by a resignation that made Qui-Gon’s heart pound in alarm.  “No,” Anakin said, shaking his head.  “If I thought it was possible, I would.  But it’s not.  I’m just going to stop you.”

“You cannot hope to defeat me, Anakin,” Sidious said, the words soft.  It was a deep, unsettling surprise to realize that Palpatine’s regret was not artifice.  “It isn’t too late, my friend.  You could join me.”

“What for?” Anakin asked, unmoved by the suggestion.  “You had nothing that I wanted except your friendship.  Considering the dead at our feet, and the torture I watched you subject my brother to…  Well, I think our friendship’s over.”

“But there is power in who I am, and what I do, Anakin,” Palpatine said, his voice resounding in his smoother, Coruscanti-tinged accent.  “I could teach you the means to bring forth the peace that you crave.  Imagine an end to the conflicts that rage across the stars!  You would have the power to affect the minds of others in all corners of the galaxy.”

His eyes flashed with realization, and then Anakin’s expression grew pained.  “It wasn’t a raid.  You influenced that Tusken tribe into attacking my mother’s home.”

“And it was a simple matter.  Does the thought not tempt you?”

Qui-Gon met his Padawan’s eyes, and knew the question to be academic.  Anakin might have been foolish enough to consider such things when he was younger, still unlearning all of the bad habits of a life spent enslaved.  He might have been tempted still, had Obi-Wan not bullied Anakin into revealing the tale of the tribe’s slaughter.  A Sith’s influence would have left the damage to fester in his psyche, turning that filthy cloud into a firestorm of Darkness.

Not anymore.  Qui-Gon had done as he had once promised. 

Anakin Skywalker was a Jedi Knight, and he was not swayed.  “I choose the Jedi, Lord Sidious.  I choose my mother, my family, my friends, my Master.  My brother,” he finished, a hint of the roguish smile returning to his face.

“Then you’re a fool!” Sidious roared, and an echo of that fiery denial hit Qui-Gon like a Force-created shockwave.  Qui-Gon flinched away from it, while Anakin raised an arm in front of his face, as if trying to swat away a spider’s web.

“Balance is nothing.  Power is _everything_!”  Sidious raised his arm and sent the violet threads of Force-drain into Obi-Wan, letting them twine and seek like greedy serpents.

Obi-Wan’s eyes opened, distress shining in pale gray depths.  He did not move, but a faint sound of protest rattled in his chest.  Qui-Gon felt his heart constrict.  Still alive, after all.  Gods above and below, that was beyond cruel.

“Coward!” Anakin spat.  “If you want power so much, then come and take it from the source!”

Qui-Gon’s eyes widened.  “No,” he tried to say, but choked on his own blood.  He spat out a foul copper mouthful, trying not to retch.

Sidious regarded Anakin as if he had, at last, done something worthy of the Sith’s full attention.  The violet threads left Obi-Wan’s body, but did not dissipate; they curled around Sidious’s right hand in an active, writhing bundle.  “Are you truly so foolish, then?”

The reckless, challenging grin of Anakin’s younger Padawan years appeared, mocking the Sith.  “I figured I was good at it, so I should stick with it.  Come on, then.  You think power is such a good thing.  Come on and take it, then!  I won’t even try to stop you.”

 _No,_ Qui-Gon sent, refuting, protesting.  _Anakin, he’s right, don’t be foolish—_

_You named me a Jedi Knight, Master.  Now shut up and let me be one!_

Sidious did not need a third invitation.  He hurled the seeking violet threads at Anakin, who watched them come.  When they caught on his arms and held, Anakin squeezed his eyes shut, wincing as they pulled pain and strength from his core.

“Ani!” Qui-Gon whispered.  No.  Not this, not while he was still alive.  He fought to get upright, staggering to his feet at the sound of Sidious’s cheerful laughter.  One step and he collapsed again.  The slight healing he had done held, but his strength did not.  Qui-Gon levered himself up on his elbows and looked, hoping and praying he was not about to witness another student’s death. 

To his surprise, Anakin was smiling.  It was a grim expression, highlighted by the lines of pain surrounding his eyes.

Even the Sith found it strange.  “What amuses you, young Skywalker?” Palpatine asked.  His presence in the Force was growing stronger, hulking like a great shadow over everything in the room.

“You do,” Anakin replied.  He raised his hands and _pushed_.

In the Force it was like a ripple of solid power, a tidal wave of light.  Qui-Gon felt it wash over him, easing the pain of his body, gentling his ability to breathe.

Sidious’s amusement faltered.  “What are you doing?”

“Why, I’m giving you what you wanted,” Anakin said, taking a step forward.  He did not motion, this time, but the wave of strength came again.  The violet threads flexed with it, filled to capacity and passing on that power as it came.  Then it was not a wave, but a constant onslaught that rippled along those tendril pathways.

Sidious was no longer standing confident among the wrecked bodies of those he had slain.  He was stepping back, retreating.  The shadow in the Force was massive, but strangely, it no longer seemed as dark.  “Stop this!”

“NO!” Anakin yelled, his temper revealed at last in response to the petty quality of the Sith’s request.  “I told you that I would stop you, Chancellor.  I meant every word!”

Anakin’s hands, both wrapped by violet, were burning with white light.  Then that light crawled up his wrists, to his elbows, until his shoulders were illuminated.  “Anakin!” Qui-Gon gasped, stunned by the beauty of it, horrified by the truth it represented. 

Sidious was frozen in place, his eyes full of anger and fearful refusal.  “Anakin, please!”  The hulking shadow was wavering like a candle flame in the breeze.  Anakin only shook his head, pressing forward with those great waves of Light.

Chosen One.  Born of the Force.  The highest midichlorian count ever recorded.  All of those things meant power, power that Qui-Gon’s young charge had never been concerned with.  Until now, until he could use it to end the threat of the Sith forever. 

Sidious’s pleas had become frantic, nonstop sounds that blurred together as he tried to free himself from the onslaught.  The Sith Lord had claimed the strength of the _Avatairee_ , and was being forced to absorb the strength of a child of prophecy.

Too much power for one being to contain.

Where Sidious was standing, Qui-Gon could see only a hint of the man, trapped in a whirlwind of white light and darkness.  The shadows that Sidious had called forth were fighting back, but they were losing, were being choked out of existence as Qui-Gon watched.

Anakin was pushing everything he had into the Sith.  All at once, too fast for any physical being to compensate for.  During the training of Qui-Gon’s youth, they had all been warned against channeling too much energy at once.  At best, it wore you down.  At worst, it burned you to ash.

“Please don’t,” he heard himself whisper. 

“ _Ni domtian a laicee,_ my Master,” Anakin replied.  He was an indistinct form, now, a figure burning out from the inside as he gave up all that he was.  _May the Force bring you peace._

The last shadow vanished, and the white light Anakin had called forth blinded him.  Qui-Gon heard an old man’s shrill scream…and underneath that, almost inaudible, was the jeering laughter of a crow.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon awoke sometime later, and there was no part of his body that didn’t ache like fire.  Even though it was the last thing he wished to do, he pushed himself up, getting to his hands and knees and then, haltingly, to his feet.  He was no longer bleeding, but his bones were _not_ in their proper places, and it felt like he was grinding glass into his hip sockets with each step he took.

His training bond with Anakin was dissolving, old skeins of connection drifting away like dead leaves on the wind.  Yet he could see no evidence of Anakin Skywalker’s final battle.  There were no new bodies to be seen. 

Even Obi-Wan was gone as if he had never been.  The overwhelming grief of so many losses had his throat tight, choked with a despair he couldn’t allow himself to voice.

Qui-Gon took a few slow steps closer to the dais.  The place where Sidious had stood held nothing but smeared ash.  The floor in that spot was black slag, and in the mess of melted stone were two marks in the exact shape of a human man’s booted footprints.

Where Anakin had been, there was only a lightsaber, lying on the black stone floor.  Qui-Gon went to it as quickly as he could, kneeling down on the cold ground next to the silver hilt.  It was Anakin’s; Qui-Gon knew the hilt well, and Anakin’s presence was still a tangible thing from it. 

The silver casing was unmarked, the floor around it untouched.  Feeling heartsick and weary beyond belief, Qui-Gon touched the hilt with the barest tips of his fingers.  He felt cool metal and quiet crystal resonance, and above all, strong determination.  Such a simple echo, but one that made it all real, that finally left him reeling. 

The click of a blaster being readied caught his attention.  He turned around—a slow, painful process—to discover the Chancellor’s aide, Sly Moore, standing with a blaster leveled at his head.  She was in a massive cloak that seemed to block what little light filtered into the chamber.  There was ice in her gaze, and anger, as she regarded him with cold determination.  Her finger was already pulling the trigger.

Before he could move in his own defense, Moore’s chest erupted in blue-violet fire.The woman croaked like a toad that had been stepped on, dropping the blaster, before she slumped down onto the floor with a final, long exhale. 

Qui-Gon stared down at the corpse before he raised his head to look up at Adi Gallia, who was holding her ignited lightsaber in both of her shaking, white-knuckled hands.  She was rasping for breath, blood oozing from the corner of her mouth. 

“Qui-Gon…you’re…all right?”

He nodded once.  “Yes,” he said, his voice as much of a wreck as hers.  “I…they’re gone, Adi.  All of them.”

“I know.”  She glanced at the dais, where Obi-Wan’s body had lain, and nodded, as if an unasked question had been answered.  Tears spilled from her eyes as she searched the shadowy room, spying the bodies of their companions.  “We should… we should contact the others.  The rest of the Council.  We… need help.”

He nodded and clambered back to his feet, going to the surviving Councilor to support her before she collapsed.  Adi’s injuries were worse than his own, but the moment he touched her, Qui-Gon knew she would live.

Comm calls were put in, both of them speaking in turns as first Adi’s, then his own breath, gave out from exhaustion.  It took some time to explain where they were, and exactly how deep the Sith’s lair was buried.

While waiting for other Jedi to arrive, they walked through the chamber in slow, unsteady stops and starts.  “He’s… not here,” Adi said in bewilderment, after they used a small pack of emergency flares to mark the location of each body.

Qui-Gon stared around at the red flare lights, at a loss.  There were only four, when there should have been five. 

Agen Kolar came to get them, leading a crew of seven Jedi and three higher ranking Judicial officers.  The thought of walking out of the Sith’s chamber was an exhausting prospect, so when a Judicial officer and one of the younger Knights steered him in the direction of a hoversled, Qui-Gon went willingly, as did Adi.  He sat down and his vision grayed out; he remained conscious just long enough to hear the young Knight trill something about a broken spine and then swear like a smuggler.

Kolar remained behind through each successive team’s arrival, so it was he who found Yoda’s lightsaber.  The small hilt was removed from a deep hole in the other stone column, its grip and metal casing cracked and blackened by Force Lightning.  It was all that was left of the Grand-Master of the Order.

The ancient Master’s tiny, frail body was nowhere to be found.

 

_To have died once is enough._

_-Virgil_


	7. Book 7 - Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When everything is over, when everyone else is gone, you still have to find a way to keep breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balls, did this chapter not want to be written. Seriously. I've been working on it for over a year. I began it long before the end of the story was close, and still it took seven months after the last book was published on AO3 for it to be finished.  
> ...So really, I'm kind of following along in the original source material's footsteps. The entirety of The Crow didn't get published until 1994 (it started back around 1982) and nearly twenty years later, there was still one last chapter, one last part, that James O'Barr still needed to tell everyone.
> 
> I don't think I'm going to wind up in that same situation. This story has come to a close, at last. Work begun in 2002 is finished here at the beginning of 2013. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, I really do. No matter how difficult this was to get this story finished, I'm glad I stuck it out.
> 
> The journey was worth it.
> 
> And that's really all that matters.

 

_The end is all that’s ever true._

_-Robert Smith (the Cure)_

_  
_

 

 

The borderlands were a place of nothing and everything, crossing the great veil from life into death.  From here one could watch, or manifest to the living.

The trick was in knowing how to do either, something that only time, trial, and error could teach.  He was just learning to begin to see, to catch glimpses, when he felt Her presence once more.

_Hmm.  Balance has been made, and yet I find you still here._

Obi-Wan smiled, not surprised that she had come to him while he stalked the Borderlands, pacing like a wild cat trapped in a cage.  _Hello._

 _Hello, Ben Lars, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Knight,_ she said, a smile in her voice.  _Why do you linger here?_

 _I’m waiting for someone._   And he would, this time. 

 _Mm,_ she replied, noncommittal.  They remained together like that for an indeterminable time, a friendship made of silence.

 _How did you know I was here?_ he asked at last, curiosity driving the words forth.  _I thought I was being rather sedate this time around.  Trying to be polite, and not wake the dead._

 _Oh, Obi-Wan,_ she said, and there was the sense that he was being embraced, and the touch made him feel loved and cherished.  _My dear one: heartbreak makes a sound that the entire universe can hear._

A wave he had not even been aware of crested and broke.  He sobbed in her arms, crushed by the weight of grief that not even a Jedi’s serenity could combat.  _I know.  I know that, now._

 _The best lessons are always the harshest to learn,_ she said, and it was as if phantom hands, real and yet not, petted his hair.  _You did well, and I’m so very proud of you, Obi-Wan.  You truly are one of mine._

_I don’t understand._

She touched his face.  _You will, one day.  In the meantime, young one, I am going to give you a gift._   She told him, and he felt himself smile.  One last thing to do, after all.  _All I ask is that you remember the lessons you have learned,_ she said. _Remember the balance._

 _I will._   There was a single question he had yet to ask.  _What are you?_

_Everything.  Nothing.  Whispers in the corner, a shadow on the sun.  Thought and consciousness, will and desire.  The Force, and everything it does not touch.  Dust and death, life and breath.  Gatekeeper, seeker.  Stars and mist.  The taste of sweet wine.  Mead in the summer.  Bonfire’s ash.  Winter wind.  Balance.  Chaos.  Potential._

Obi-Wan grinned. _You could have just stuck with “everything.”_

 _Sometimes, not everyone realizes that everything is far more than they typically conceive, just as not everyone realizes that forever is endless, and encompasses more than just a certain point in time onward.  It is_ all _time._   _Remember that when you pledge yourself, my love.  If you speak of forever, the universe will hear._

 _I will remember,_ he said, feeling a strength and power to her words that had never been present before.  Then he said something that surprised him, even though it was true.  _I love you._

 _As much as I love you._  He felt the impression of soft lips on his left cheekbone, a benediction and farewell.  _Till we meet again, young one._

**Frequency**

 

He wakes up; he thinks he does.  Everything is black, and underneath that darkness lurks pain.  Not good, that.  He shivers away from it and returns gladly to oblivious slumber.

He wakes up again and can barely fathom his own name.

He’s only felt like this one or two times before.  These must be some damn good painkillers.

“Nope, back to bed, you.  You’ve got a bacta stint to sleep off,” he hears someone say.

Well.  That explains the smell, at least.  He can’t say what day it is or what is going on, but there is nothing wrong with his nose—

The stench of bacta is much diminished when he opens his eyes again.  This time he feels all right, but there is a lingering, deep ache in his body, telling him that not long ago, he had not been all right at all.

“Is he gone?” Padmé asks.

Qui-Gon turns his head to find her sitting next to his bedside, the pseudo-privacy of drawn curtains shielding them from the rest of the Healers’ Ward.  The Senator’s hair has freed itself from its usual braided confines, falling in frayed strands around her face.  Her eyes are hollow, her face pinched and white.

Her lips twitch in a brief, unwilling smile, a greeting that she cannot help but offer.  Then she asks him again, “Is he gone?”

He understands.  “Yes,” Qui-Gon says, surprised to find himself able to speak the word without difficulty.  It should have been harder to say.  It should not be possible to break someone’s heart with a single word.

She looks away, nodding once, as tears stream from her eyes.  “I knew, but I…I had to ask.  There’s no—” Padmé swallows.  “There isn’t a body.”

“No,” he says as he remembers.  Eight deaths, but only four bodies.  He wonders what Adi has told the others.  He wonders if he cares.

Not even bacta can overcome the taste of ash in his mouth.

“Did Ani stop him?” Padmé asks, still not looking at Qui-Gon.

“Of course,” Qui-Gon replies, and it’s here that his voice begins to fail him, as weariness and convalescence take their toll.  “It’s what he was born to do.”

She turns her head quickly; her eyes snap to his, full of pain and anger.  “Is this what your damned prophecy was for?  Is this what you wanted for us?  For Anakin?”

Qui-Gon sighs.  “No, Padmé.  Never this.”  Not for you.  Not for any of us.

The anger fades, but the pain does not.  Padmé takes his hand in her cold fingers, and resumes her silent, tear-filled vigil.

They don’t speak again, but words are unnecessary.  They have both lost what they most loved in the universe.  Qui-Gon Jinn and Padmé Amidala understand one another perfectly.

**Gravity**

 

He is allowed out of bed the next day.  The deep ache is worse, in his bones, in his back.

Especially his back.

“You’re lucky,” the Healer on duty tells him.  Qui-Gon has already forgotten his name.  He doesn’t recall if they were even introduced.  “I know you were walking around after you broke four vertebrae, so it’s a miracle you didn’t damage the spinal cord.  That would have meant a longer bacta stint, and a hell of a lot of therapy.”

Qui-Gon suspects it has nothing to do with luck, and a lot more to do with the otherworldly energy Obi-Wan gave him.  “Can I see Adi?” he asks.

The Healer nods.  “Yes.  In fact, I’d encourage it.  She had a rougher time of it than you, and could use the company of someone who isn’t badgering her into explaining what became of…of…”  The Healer stops speaking and clamps a hand over his mouth, his eyes filling with a sheen of moisture.  “Of everyone,” he says at last.

Qui-Gon recognizes him, finally.  “Bern.  You were one of Ki-Adi Mundi’s students.”

Bern nods.  “Yes.  He wasn’t impressed when I gave up an active Knight’s lifestyle for Healer’s scrubs, but he got over it.  I’m just glad you killed Sidious, or else I’d have a…”  Bern smiles, but it’s an empty expression.  “I’d have a suicidal need to go after the Sith, myself.”

“I didn’t kill Sidious,” Qui-Gon says, to the Healer’s confusion, and goes to find Adi Gallia.

Adi is sitting on the bed in her own medical room, wrapped in someone else’s pale blue robe.  Her usual headdress is gone, and her short hair is sticking up in gray tufts.

Qui-Gon is actually halted by that sight, and the realization it brings.  It’s hard to believe that the younger woman could have put enough years behind her to see that much gray in her hair.  It’s still so easy to think of her as the new young Master on the Council, and not the wise woman she has become.

Adi looks up to see him standing awkwardly in the doorway.  “Oh, thank the Force it’s you,” she says, a smile of gratitude on her face.

He goes to her and sits down next to her, and thinks nothing at all of wrapping one arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.  They were not dear friends before Sidious, but they always will be, now.

“If so many of the Masters had not felt his death, no one would believe Yoda is gone,” Adi says, and he can sense the bitterness of it.  “He was our Grand Master.  If anyone is going to honor the old legends and discorporate, it’s definitely the troll.”

That surprises a laugh out of Qui-Gon.  “He always said he never wanted a public funeral.  He managed to avoid it, after all.”

She sighs against him, grief and fondness thick in the air.  “I’ve told them almost nothing, Qui-Gon.  For gods’ sake, what _do_ we tell them?  Without Obi-Wan, without Jeimor, what do we say?”

Qui-Gon hasn’t thought about this at all, but he opens his mouth and finds he knows exactly what to say.  “We tell them a story.  We tell the Order, and the Republic, that we faked the funeral of a Padawan at the conclusion of his Trials.  We tell them that when faced with the renewed threat of the Sith, we needed a Jedi who would be forgotten.  We needed someone who would be free to ferret out the truths and the lies, who could find the Sith at the heart of all the deception.

“We tell them that a Jedi Knight, living under a name unknown to all, did the work to reveal the true nature of Palpatine’s deep treachery against the Republic.  We tell them of the sacrifices that were made on all sides. 

“We show them our wounded heart, Adi, and they will believe it.”

Adi sits up so that she can look at him.  It is only when her gentle fingers wipe his bristled cheeks that Qui-Gon realizes he is weeping.  “You will take a seat on the Council, Qui-Gon.  If that is a tale you can tell when I know your heart is broken, then we need you.  I don’t think the Order will survive without you.”

Though it was once utter anathema to entertain the thought, Qui-Gon inclines his head in acceptance.  “Then I will.”

She sighs and rests her head against his shoulder once more.  “Good.  I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with this alone.”

Qui-Gon nods.  The secret of the _avatairee_ is safe, and the Council of Six has become a Council of Two.

It is almost six days after the Sith’s defeat when Qui-Gon allows himself, at last, to stumble wearily down the long corridor to his quarters.  For a moment he stands in front of his closed door, staring at the engraved metal plate that bears his and Anakin’s names.

Then he rips it free, bloodying his fingernails in the process.  He hadn’t been able to save the tag that had borne his and Obi-Wan’s names; it was replaced with this one before Qui-Gon returned from Naboo after Obi-Wan’s funeral.

This one, he will keep.  That, and the short blond braid Anakin tossed him with a delighted smile, just before the battle against Sidious.  When she feels up to it, Padmé Amidala will also peruse the other items that Anakin owned, taking what she wishes to preserve her husband’s memory.

The last thing that will remain in Qui-Gon’s possession is Anakin’s lightsaber, now a relic of the final duel with a Sith Lord.  Years from now, Qui-Gon knows, he is going to be placing it into the hands of one of Anakin’s children.  Perhaps a blade will go to each child, for he still has Asa’s curved-hilt lightsaber attached to his belt.

He enters his quarters, smells the mechanical, oily tang that has pervaded the living space since Anakin’s first year, and slumps against the wall.  His eyes burn, but he has no tears left.  He has been grieving for too long—has been grieving for these many years, now.  The weight of it is staggering. 

He shrugs out of his long robe, leaving it on the floor in a heap to deal with tomorrow.  The droids can make the decision of whether the bloodstains can be washed from its folds, or if it is to be replaced.

Qui-Gon walks into the kitchen, his eyes focused back on the nameplate in his hands.  It reflects the city lights that shine in from the balcony.  Red swirls now decorate it on all sides from handling it with still-bleeding fingers.  _How appropriate,_ he thinks.

-Sometimes you’ve got to shed some blood to keep the good stuff going.-

He lifts his head, his breath catching in surprise.  A large black crow is perched on the back of one of his kitchen chairs.  _Jeimor,_ Qui-Gon thinks, but then realizes he is wrong.  This crow is different—more ruffled in the neck, narrower in body.

Yet it speaks to him, much like Obi-Wan’s companion had.  “Hello.”

The crow bobs its head in greeting.  -I bring you a message.  Jeimor likes to bitch and whine that it’s not our thing, but it really is.  I mean, shit, can you think of a bigger message than the dead walking around?-

“I suppose not,” Qui-Gon says, and chooses to pull out another chair and sit, lest he fall down on his own floor.  “You knew Jeimor?”

-We all know each other, after a fashion.  Jeimor and I have been doing this shit longer than most.  I’m Reimus.-

“Nice to meet you, Reimus.”  Qui-Gon inclines his head.  “I am…sorry about your friend.”

  Reimus tilts his head, regarding him with an eye that is more crimson than amber.  -Why?  Dead happens just as much as living happens.  He’s fine.  Fuck, he’s already bragging that he guided a Jedi around.  I don’t see what the difference is, myself.  One dead sod’s the same as another dead sod.-

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow.  Crows, it seems, are not big on sympathy.  Or perhaps it is just this crow.  Jeimor had often been crude and sharp, but kindness lurked underneath.  “You said you had a message for me?”

-Ah, right.  Business.-  The crow hops from the chair down onto the tabletop, walks over with his swaying bird-gait, and halts next to a white envelope that Qui-Gon can’t remember seeing before. 

-I’m quoting your dead Jedi, here, so don’t think I came up with this nonsense all on my own- the crow says, and then opens his beak.

_-Time is a funny thing.  It can seem slow, like the pace of a glacier across a continent.  Or it can be fast, and lifetimes can go by in the space of a blink.-_

The crow looks at him and shuffles his feet. _-Don’t blink.-_

Qui-Gon swallows.  “Obi-Wan said that?”

-That’s what I was told- Reimus replies, sounding testy.  -This is yours, too.  He said not to get rid of this one.-  The crow taps the envelope with his beak.  -Now open your balcony door and let me the hell out of here.  I don’t do emotional bullshit unless I’m on duty.-

Bemused, Qui-Gon gets up and opens the sliding glass door.  Reimus takes his leave without another word, flapping his great wings and sailing out into the Coruscant night.  Qui-Gon watches him go until the ebon form is lost to his sight.

He goes back to the table, picks up the envelope, and hefts its weight in his palm.  Lightweight, the item slides around with the sharp sound of rounded metal against dry paper.

When he opens the envelope and turns it over, a long, copper-blond braid falls in a neat coil into his upturned hand.  There are gunmetal-silver beads tied in it, and the end is stained in red.

Qui-Gon clenches the braid in his hand: he can feel the impression of rushing air, twinkling lights and headlong flight, a memory of himself and his _avatairee_ as they ride the wind in the dark.  

 _How much longer is this path?_ he once wondered, in the months before he met a young Jedi Knight named Ben Lars.

_Don’t blink._

“I won’t,” Qui-Gon promises, and kisses the reddened end of the long braid.

 

_Perhaps the day may come when we shall_

_remember these sufferings with joy._  
_-Virgil_

 

Sometimes forever is a long time in coming. 

Qui-Gon Jinn reflects on that particular thought many times after Sidious’s defeat.  Forever is a long time; forever is _all_ time.

The Galactic Republic doesn’t have the strength left to bear the treachery of its last Chancellor.  While the Senate still convenes, the roiling shock of the Sith’s unmasking and defeat is the death knell of a governing body that is older than written memory.  Planets and systems withdraw on a daily basis, and with each dawn that colors Coruscant’s sky, the number of empty Senate pods grows.

Despite his concern for the fate of the government he has served, the Republic is now secondary to what Qui-Gon has charged himself with: seeing to the survival of the Jedi Order.  Adi and Agen Kolar confirmed him as Mace Windu’s replacement on the Council in a ceremony that he can scarcely remember.  He is not Head of the Order; that is something that none of them can decide on.  Without Mace, without Yoda or Saesee Tiin or Shaak Ti or Ki-Adi Mundi, none of them know who to name.  He is not even certain that they should.

Anakin’s field-Knighting is verified by the Council, uncontested.  Once Qui-Gon and Adi told them of that final battle, the other six Masters affirm that Anakin Skywalker would have been dubbed a Knight even if Qui-Gon had not done so. 

Where once he might have felt pride in his final student’s accomplishment, Qui-Gon feels nothing stronger than lurking sadness.  As he told Padmé, Anakin deserved better.  They all did.

It didn’t take Qui-Gon very long to discover that his fingertips could now read memory by touch, a talent that he never wanted.  It isn’t on par with Quinlan Vos’s skills, nor is it the overwhelming psychometric responses that Obi-Wan suffered through.  Just whispers and hints, the reflection of images, scents brought to mind…and emotions long gone, but evoked like kindled flame.

Even that is too much.  Some days he wonders how Quinlan remains sane.  Force knew Obi-Wan hadn’t managed it very well.

The psychometry is another remnant of the energy Obi-Wan shared with him to save his life, a gift passed on, just like the ability to hear caustic Jeimor.  Ultimately, it is what leads him to seek new quarters in the Temple.

“But Master Jinn, you’ve had that room assignment for forty years now!” the Quartermaster protests, shocked by both his appearance and request.

“That’s true,” Qui-Gon says, forcing the words out when his jaw wants to clench.  “But I find them…too big, of late.  I’ll hole up in a closet, if space is your concern.”

“No, no.”  The old Quermian shakes his head.  “Plenty of space these days, Master Jinn.  I have smaller rooms available, singles and the like.  Do you wish to retain a Padawan suite?”  _After young Skywalker’s fate?_ the man seems to be asking.

He doesn’t mind.  People are ever curious.  “I knew before Anakin was Knighted that he would be my last Padawan, Errol,” Qui-Gon explains, his voice soft.  “The extra room won’t be needed.”

Errol nods, his gaze gentler than before.  “Go see these three,” he says, handing Qui-Gon a ’plast strip with three different Temple locations scribbled on it.  “Tell me which one you like best, and I’ll send a droid crew to help you move shop in the next few days.  Or would you prefer to pack up yourself?”

Qui-Gon thinks about all of the intimate, personal items he owns, so many of them from friends and loved ones who are long gone from his life.  The idea of feeling all of those impressions, no matter how faint, is nightmarish.  He isn’t ready to be so immersed in Anakin’s memories, or Obi-Wan’s, or anyone else’s.  “No, actually, I don’t mind.  In fact, my schedule is currently full enough that if the crew could handle the packing and transfer of _all_ the items in my quarters, I would be grateful.”

“And Skywalker’s Padawan suite?  Do you have a…a preference?”

It is hard not to sigh at the thought.  “His friends have already chosen the things of his they wish to keep, as have I.  If the rest could be packed for shipping, my Padawan has family on Tatooine who would be grateful to receive the rest.”

It is a mere twenty-six hours before Qui-Gon is ensconced in the new quarters he chose, in a higher part of the East Tower.  He kept the view of the city, as he now has trouble sleeping if the glow of the district lights isn’t present. 

Errol’s efficient crews put up new shelves, and then proceed to place each item in as close to its original position as possible. The rest of the area is nearly a blank slate, it’s gone so long without inhabitants.  There are no strong impressions to find unless he reaches out to touch some old machined part of Anakin’s, or run his fingers along one of Obi-Wan’s favored geodes.  The lack of other impressions in the new space is a relief.  It is also a wrenching pain that leaves him sitting out on his new tiny balcony for a full night, tears running down his face as he tries not to regret being left behind.

The grand army of the Republic is the final straw, the nail in the coffin.  The Security squads on Coruscant were bad, but what comes within days of Qui-Gon’s Confirmation is almost worse.

The clones are dying.

“We’ve lost over half of the fleet,” Admiral Yularen says.  He arrived on Coruscant yesterday, to personally inform the Order and the Senate of the on-going decimation of the months-old military.  “If this continues unabated, I expect a full loss of personnel in the next three months.”  Yularen says the words with clinical detachment, but there is frustration in his eyes.

“Gods,” Adi says, watching the reports come in with one hand plastered to her cheek.  “I don’t care what problems we may have had with their existence.  This is inhumane.”

Qui-Gon nods.  The Council’s central holographic display is showing a running tally of the reported deaths, and the number is climbing with every minute that passes.  “No cause of death can be determined?”

“None, Master,” Knight Aayla Secura tells them.  Her holographic image is shot through with bursts of static, but it isn’t enough to disguise the young Twi’lek’s weariness.  “The medical droids cannot determine a cause of death, but Barriss—I’m sorry, Padawan Offee—she’s got healing talent.  As far as she can tell, their bodies are just…shutting down.”

 _Like droids,_ Qui-Gon thinks, and restrains a shiver.  The Council suspected that the Sith was behind the clones’ creation, but without the final, fatal clue—Sidious’s true identity—they had never been able to divine a purpose for their existence.

Without the Sith, the clones are no longer necessary, their purpose rendered obsolete.  The Kaminoans must have programmed this fate into the clones’ genetic makeup from the very beginning.

“We’ll have to institute a draft order,” Yularen says, his brow furrowing with concern.  “The Republic is defenseless without a standing military.”

Qui-Gon gives him a considering look, as he remembers that Yularen was appointed by Palpatine.  “The Confederates have not initiated an attack against Republic space since Geonosis.”

Yularen frowns at him.  “That does not mean that they won’t, Master Jinn.  It is my duty to protect the Republic.  I plan to go before the Senate this very afternoon to suggest the draft order.  Our government needs the fleet, Master Jedi.  That has not changed.”

“There are plenty of volunteers,” Aayla points out, trying to be helpful.  “Maybe not all of the clones will die.  That should be enough to keep a draft order from being necessary.”

Yularen says nothing, but Qui-Gon suspects that neither possibility will change the Admiral’s mind.

“Can the Kaminoans stop it?” Adi asks.  “They’re living beings.  They deserve the right to survive as much as any of us.”

“Master Vos went to Kamino to find out,” Aayla replies, her expression hardening.  “The Kaminoans say that they can’t, and even if they could, they won’t.  They wouldn’t even discuss the programming modules with us.  Master Quin had to break into their database just to find out the extra modules existed in the first place!”

“Break in?” Adi repeats, a faint trace of amusement in her voice.  “He didn’t mention that.”

Aayla winces.  “Er.  You didn’t hear that.”

Qui-Gon read Vos’s report on Order 66.  It gave him the nightmares Sidious himself failed to evoke.  “Do what you can, Knight Secura.  We’ll send some more Healers out to the fleet.”

Aayla nods in evident relief.  “Thank you, Master Jinn.  Flagship _Dauntless_ out.”

**Radiate**

A pain shared is not a pain halved, but at least it is understood.  Qui-Gon and Padmé spend at least an evening a week in each other’s company, even if most of that time is spent in silence.  Padmé doesn’t blame him for Anakin’s fate, but he does, and it makes it harder to accept that the young Senator wants to be in his presence.

She calls him to the Senate on a day that Palpatine’s trial is not the issue on the floor.  From one of the shadowed alcoves, he listens as Padmé declares her marriage public, and names Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight, as the father of her children.

Twins, Qui-Gon realizes, feeling his eyes burn anew from grief.  He is so caught in the churn of emotion that he almost misses hearing Padmé declare him her children’s godfather.

He has to swipe a datapad from a Senate aide and look up what the term even means.

[Godfather: guardian of underage children, sometimes in a religious capacity; one who becomes caretaker; to become a familial relation; to be named as parental stand-in in cases of parent death of legally recognized offspring]

“Are you certain that’s a wise idea?” Qui-Gon asks her the moment the Senate session is called to a close.

Padmé gives him a stern, narrow-eyed look.

“Right,” he says, and manages a faint smile before wrapping his arms around her in a willing embrace.  He can feel three bright pinpoints of life burning against him.

Padmé is five months pregnant, and yet, despite carrying two children in her womb, barely looks to be with child at all.  “Runs in the family,” she explains, when Qui-Gon gives her slight belly another curious glance.  “Mom was nine months pregnant with my sister and looked as if she just had a bad case of indigestion.”

In contrast, the two tiny lives in her womb glow in the Force like brilliant gems.  They aren’t muttering non-verbal babyspeak yet, but Qui-Gon guesses that in another month, their mother will have to contend with noisy dreams.

They travel to Tatooine together after Palpatine’s post-mortem trial has concluded.  Palpatine is not found guilty, exactly, but he is declared to be a Sith, and the Jedi are officially exonerated for their actions.

Qui-Gon thinks the declaration of innocence has less to do with the Jedi themselves, and far more to do with Vima’s people.  No one has forgotten the dust-faced crowds that gathered in the Senate District on the day that Sidious was defeated.

Shmi Skywalker-Lars welcomes them into the desert homestead with open arms and a sad smile.  The sight of her is enough to make Qui-Gon want to turn and bolt back to the Nubian transport.

“Don’t you dare, Qui-Gon Jinn,” Shmi tells him in a fierce whisper, as he reluctantly returns her embrace.  “I blame you for nothing.”

“But I do,” he says, staring down at her; brave woman, who once handed her only child over to a near stranger on the tiniest hope that the Jedi could give Anakin Skywalker a better life.

“I know,” Shmi says, and turns to Padmé.  “Welcome home, my daughter.”

Padmé tries to smile and bursts into shocked, grieving tears instead.  Shmi goes to her and holds her, shushing her and murmuring the kind words that Qui-Gon has trouble finding.  It is fortunate that Padmé expects very few from him.  They are companions in their grief, lost in the silver woods together.

Before dinner, he wanders the farm alone, content to let Padmé’s in-laws croon over the unborn twins and mourn Anakin’s loss as a family.  Qui-Gon wants no part of that, and has no wish to be the awkward guest lurking in the background, too tall and too noticeable. 

He has been back to Tatooine only once before this.  Several years after Naboo, Qui-Gon returned to this vast desert to give Anakin a promised visit to his mother.  It had gone well, though Watto glowered at him and muttered threats under his breath.  Shmi had been grateful to see her son, free and doing well, and Anakin had been relieved to find his mother still safe in Watto’s dubious care.

The Council had almost drummed Qui-Gon out of the Order for providing that little trip.  The memory makes him smile, now, when it had always angered him before.  All that fuss, and for what?  A child’s happiness, in a life where he had experienced little?  How was Qui-Gon supposed to find fault with what had only brought healing?

Considering what it has all come down to, Qui-Gon wishes he had pushed for more.  Anakin had deserved that consideration, had _earned_ it, no matter how much Mace had fought against it.

Qui-Gon halts before a marker in the sand, bearing a date over thirty years old.  The name is clearly visible, despite the sand-worn edges of the stone.  Aika Lars, Obi-Wan’s mother, who died just after bringing Owen Lars into the world.

“Damn, I miss you, you stubborn bastard,” Qui-Gon whispers, speaking to the stone as if it’s a sounding board to the ethereal.  Why this one lone grave prompts the words, he has no idea.  “I hated going to your funeral about as much as you would have hated going to mine.  You should have outlived me, Mace.  You and Adi should have given in years ago, and had beautiful Haruun-Kal Corellian temper tantrums together.  Those children would have had the run of the crèche, and would have made incredible Jedi, just like their parents.”

“I do that, too,” a voice at his side says.  Qui-Gon glances down and finds that young Owen has joined him.  The young man has soulful blue eyes, much like his father, but it is the shape of his face, his slight build, that is reminiscent of his brother.  “’Course, when I’m out here talking to the dust, it’s usually to speak to my mother.”

Qui-Gon manages a half-smile, feeling as if he has intruded.  “My apologies.”

Owen waves it off, unconcerned.  “Nah, don’t worry about it.  I never knew my mother, so it’s good to come out here and talk, even if…” 

Owen hesitates before he says, “You’re a Jedi.  You think the dead really listen to all of the nonsense we have to say?”

This time, Qui-Gon’s smile is genuine.  “I know they do.”

He and Padmé take turns telling the Skywalker-Lars clan the tale of what happened in the months leading up to Sidious’s downfall.  Shmi deserves to know about the Jedi Anakin had grown to be, just as much as Cliegg Lars needs to hear about the Jedi Knight his elder son had been. 

Qui-Gon almost slips, almost tells them all that the story of Obi-Wan’s faked death on Naboo is a lie.  He and Padmé gaze at each other across the big stone table.  She says nothing, does not even shake her head, but he understands.  These people, the family to their lost ones, need the comfort of the lie.  The truth of the crow does not belong here.

They leave on promises to visit again, as Shmi and Cliegg both wish to have some part in the lives of their future grandchildren.  Padmé agrees to return to Tatooine as often as possible.

Qui-Gon is still bewildered by the fact that Shmi wants him to return at all.  He says that he will do his best; as a Jedi Master and Councilor to a struggling Order, his time is always going to be short.

“Do you think the Order will survive the Republic’s fall?” Padmé asks him during the return flight.  It is late in the ship’s cycle, and Qui-Gon finds that insomnia has touched them both and refuses to let go.  He suspects that her pregnancy is keeping her from restful slumber, but he has no such excuse.

“I don’t know,” he says, because it’s true.  There are still many Jedi in the Order who refuse to believe the Republic’s death is at hand.  It makes it harder to get things done, especially when he sits on a Council with several who hold that belief.  “I wish I could say that it would, but right now, things are uncertain.”

 _If Yoda had lived, he could have pushed the entire lot of us into place, and the question would become academic,_ Qui-Gon thinks, and has to shake his head at the bitterness he feels.  Many Jedi still cannot believe that the grand-Master of the Order discorporated upon dying, like the ancient Masters of legend were known to do.  No, instead it is easier to say that the old troll is missing.  Kidnapped by Sidious’s cronies.  Hidden away by the Jedi Council for some secret plot.  Integral part of a cloning scheme on Kamino. 

Yoda would have cackled with delight at every single ridiculous theory.

Adi is worried that they are fast approaching a point of schism.  Qui-Gon knows that it has happened already.

Perhaps sensing the nature of his thoughts, Padmé pats his hand before rising.  “When the time comes, Master Qui-Gon, know that the Jedi are welcome on Naboo.”

He nods and watches her retreat.  Despite Padmé’s slight figure, her gait is already swayed by the weight of pregnancy. 

She has not been the first to offer Qui-Gon shelter for the Jedi.  Mon Mothma made a similar offer; Garm bel Iblis confirmed that all Jedi are, as always, welcome in the Corellian system. 

The Senators of the old Loyalist Committee still attend sessions of Congress, going to meetings under the guise of unity and still-futile attempts to elect a new Chancellor.  Qui-Gon and Adi Gallia are two of the few who know their actions for the front that they are.  Those who helped to reveal Palpatine’s true, duplicitous nature are now working to secure the safety of the people they were elected to represent.  Partnerships are being formed within the fledgling Alliance, securing trade routes for agricultural needs, merchandise, medicines, schooling. 

“Forget a decade,” Senator Alavar says at their next meeting, held in Bail Organa’s private apartment.  “The bureaucratic offices are starting to fumble _now._   Health and Safety’s ability to keep up with public demand has fallen forty percent in the past month.”

“Gods,” Mon Mothma murmurs.  “They provide services for billions.  How are they losing so much of their office so quickly?”

“The money’s getting re-routed,” Onaconda Far grumbles.  “I know you all have been using your Senate presence to create alliances under everyone’s nose, but someone has to actually listen to their nonsense.  A lot of Palpatine’s old allies are making grabs for the money that ran the Republic, and ditching social services has been the fastest way to get to a lot of that credit.”

“Greedy, soulless bastards,” Padmé spits, her eyes sparking with anger.  “They’ll let millions die to line their own pockets.”

“We knew this, Padmé,” Bail says, resting his hand on her shoulder to soothe her.  “We knew that they would sacrifice whoever they could to save themselves.  That’s why we’re acting now, to secure the things our systems will need to continue once the old central government is gone.”

Fang Zar laughs, a dry, harsh sound.  Of them all, the old Senator has aged the most in the months since Sidious’s defeat.  “Can you imagine: Our systems all used to be self-sufficient.  What the hell happened to us that we can’t even come up with our own foodstuffs anymore?”

“Taxes,” Garm retorts promptly, which draws a reluctant laugh from the small group. 

“What have the Calamarians decided?” Mon Mothma asks.

“They haven’t,” Adi says, as she has been the last to speak with the Mon Calamarian Senator.  “Dowmeia is all for it, but he cannot convince his co-Senator of the same.  Senator Tills is leery of us, and still believes the Republic to be salvageable.”

“And to think, not even a year ago we would have heard the reverse,” Qui-Gon observed.

“Does anyone know what happened to Tikkes?” Bail asks, smiling at the reminder of the cantankerous former Senator.

“As far as our intelligence has it, Tikkes remains in the company of the Trade Federation,” Adi says, consulting her datapad.  “And we finally have a clear line on their new leadership: Senator Bonteri of Onderon was elected Head of State last month, ousting someone named Grievous, who was keen to continue the CIS’s policy of aggression against the Republic.”

Padmé sits up in surprise.  “Mina?  Really?”

Mon Mothma frowns.  “Perhaps this is what is behind the lack of military action on the Separatist’s part?  Mina always said that she wasn’t interested in the Separatist cause because of their army.”

“They didn’t have a reason _to_ wage war in the first place,” Alavar retorts.  “And they did so, anyway.”

“That was Dooku’s impetus,” Qui-Gon tells her sharply.  “The Confederates had their own cause that the Sith took advantage of.  If they’re going to leave the Republic in peace while it crumbles to bits, all to the better.”

“You know, I have a blasphemous notion,” Terr Taneel speaks, looking hesitant.  “Don’t lynch me.”

“Don’t have rope.  Spill it,” Garm says.  “What is it?”

“Why don’t we approach the Confederacy to become part of the Alliance?”

The silence in the room feels oppressive until Fang Zar whistles.  “Damn, girl.  I should have thought of that.”

“But they’re _Separatists!_ ” Alavar hisses in outrage.

“And what are we?” Mon Mothma asks.

Alavar sputters for a moment.  “Shit!” she says, and then sits back in her chair with a clear sulk on her face.  “Dammit.  I don’t like being a traitor.”

“Until you’re actively betraying the faith of the people who voted for you to speak on their behalf, you’re nothing of the sort,” Adi tells her.

“There will be some who call us that, anyway,” Bail cautions.

“I’ve been called worse,” Garm says with a shrug.  “Listen, I’ve got ties on at least three more systems who know that shit’s about to go belly-up and don’t want to be caught off-guard.  You want me to approach them about the Alliance and see what their feelings are?”

“That would be a kindness,” Bail says, rubbing his bearded chin with one hand.  “Who wants to tackle the Confederate issue?”

Padmé looks around the room before her gaze settles on Qui-Gon.  “I’ll go.  Mina is a friend.”

Qui-Gon internally debates with himself about speaking in refusal; he is trying to take this godfather role seriously, after all.  Still, he knows Padmé well enough to know what her answer would be to that kind of suggestion.  “I cannot accompany you at the moment, but I can make certain that you travel well-protected.”

 “Can you loan me Quinlan Vos?” Padmé asks.  “Senator Frell Cox won’t commit to us because the Azurbani system has publicly announced that they are thinking about joining the Confederacy.  If I have a Kiffar with me, it will seem like we’re in a much more agreeable mood than we were after Geonosis.”

“That’s a good idea,” Adi says, pleased.

Mon Mothma nods.  “I agree.  In fact, I was just thinking that we’re going to have to start coming up with articles of confederation soon.”

“Ah, more Confederates.  They’ll love us,” Alavar mutters with a resigned sigh.

“A full quarter of the Republic’s member systems have already seceded,” Mon Mothma reminds them all.  “What was relevant last year is relevant no longer.”

Alavar waves her hand in acknowledgement, sinking into a quiet, despairing slump.

“We do have Senators Chuchi and Papanoida confirming their willingness to hear about the Alliance, at least,” Onaconda says, attempting to lighten her mood.

“And Senator Malé-Dee,” Alavar admits.  “He is interested, but is uncertain whether the Uyter system is willing to go along with it.”

“What about your people, Jamel?” Terr Taneel asks, giving the dust-faced shadow in the room a questioning look.

The old rogue who is responsible for the Security Office’s destruction steps forward, inclining his head.  “We be making do, Senators, Masters Jedi,” he says.  “We’re well aware of what happens to Coruscant once the Senate finally gives in and lets go, and a lot of the families have turned Galactic City’s abandoned buildings into greenhouses.  We’re starting t’ farm now, while we still have the supplies to survive our screw-ups.  Some of the families want t’ leave, of course.  Your big friend, Jettster,” he nods at Qui-Gon, “is a help, and I think the first folk who want off this shitheap will be heading out within the week.”

“Are you going to be leaving the shitheap, then?” Garm asks, amused.

Jamel shakes his head.  “My family’s been living in the mid-levels for a good three hundred years, Senator Iblis.  Nah, we’re stayin’ put, lest we have no choice.”

Qui-Gon glances around at each Senator before finally meeting Adi’s eyes.  With the Republic dying, the supply lines to the galactic capital will dry up.  She nods once, in acknowledgement and in agreement.

_We have to get the hell off of this planet._

Qui-Gon is still considering that same realization when he returns to his quarters after midnight.  He tosses his cloak over the couch; the hooks by the door were the first things in the new quarters to start speaking to him.  His own hands create impressions, leaving memories of the day’s events on the things he touches, and getting a three to six layer memory pattern jolt of déjà vu got old fast. 

His dishes are quiet, because they’re new.  He makes tea on autopilot and takes it outside to drink on the balcony, a space just large enough for two people to kneel in shared meditation.

Right now, he doesn’t want to meditate.  He sips tea and glares out at Coruscant’s brilliant skyline, because it’s been six months and _he has_ _no plan at all_.  Qui-Gon has long been a believer in allowing things to happen as they will, but lately the sense of losing time is eating at him.  Alavar’s news about Health and Safety has disquieted him further.

He hears no noise, and senses nothing, but something prompts him to look to his right, anyway.  Obi-Wan is sitting on the narrow rail in a relaxed slouch, his long hair being stirred by the breeze.  He’s dressed in black, as before.  There is still blood in his hair.

Qui-Gon should be surprised, and isn’t.  That is almost as disconcerting as Health and Safety’s swift downfall.

Obi-Wan smiles at him.  “If I had ever sulked the way you are now…”

“I’m not sulking,” Qui-Gon says in automatic rebuttal.  He is completely bewildered by how _normal_ this feels. 

“Uh huh.”  Obi-Wan takes the tea from Qui-Gon’s hands, pours the remaining liquid out over the balcony edge, and then gives the empty mug back to him.  “Go to bed, Qui-Gon.  Sleep.  Things will be clearer in the morning.”

He nods.  “Good night,” he says, and goes to do just that.

It’s when he’s settled under the covers, his room darkened, that Qui-Gon thinks: _This must be what it feels like when you hallucinate._

The next morning, he’s halfway to a training salle for an appointment with the physical therapist still dogging his footsteps, when Quinlan Vos melts out of an alcove to greet him.  “Master Jinn.”

“Quinlan,” Qui-Gon says, frowning.  “I do believe you’re supposed to be departing Coruscant with Senator Amidala.”

Quinlan nods.  “In three hours, yes.  I need to speak to you first.”

He doesn’t hesitate.  “Better you than that damned Healer.”

Quinlan grins and leads him to a quiet room.  Privacy shielding comes on at a gesture from the Kiffar man, and they sit down together at a work table littered with what looks to be singed blaster parts.  Someone needs an earful about cleaning up their messes. 

Quinlan snickers and sweeps the blaster detritus off to one side.  “I’ve been talking to Bail Organa.”

“Oh?”  Qui-Gon is a bit surprised by that; Quinlan Vos is not fond of the political sector.  The politicians are not so fond of Vos, either.

“Well, wasn’t really my idea.  See, a man with a bird made the suggestion some months ago,” Quinlan says, leaning back in his chair. 

Obi-Wan.  Suddenly, last night’s hallucination makes a bit more sense.  “Go on.”

“Granted, he didn’t know why, and neither did I,” Quinlan explains.  “At least, not until I went to see the good Senator.  Bail told me that there is still an old Jedi Temple on Alderaan.”

“I knew that,” Qui-Gon says, puzzled.  “As I understand, it’s being used as an administration building for one of the royal households.”

“Right.”  Quinlan nods.  “Bail’s wife, Breha Antilles-Organa—she’s spent the last five months clearing the building out, relocating the offices.  As far as Alderaan is concerned, the Temple’s ours again.”

Well.  That explained Bail Organa’s curious silence on the matter of the Jedi’s continued Coruscant presence.  He had been planning.  Qui-Gon wonders if it was something that the young Senator came up with alone, or with the help of an _avatairee_.

When he returns his attention to Quinlan Vos, the other Master has a huge, delighted grin on his face.  “There’s a bit more to my news than that, Master Jinn,” he says, and slides a ’plast sheet across the table.

There are seven planets listed upon it, including Alderaan.  Qui-Gon reads each name and then looks up at Quinlan in disbelief.  “All of them?”

Quinlan leaves to act as political ploy and bodyguard to Senator Amidala’s delegation to the Confederacy of Independent Systems.  Qui-Gon decides to skip the remainder of his physical therapy appointment and goes to sit on the Grand Stair, letting the new knowledge in his head churn about with the rest of his thoughts.

One of the young Padawans finds him there, and sits down next to him without asking for an invitation.  Ahsoka Tano, Yoda’s final pet project.  “You look all thinky,” she says.

“If I ever catch you using the term “thinky” in a diplomatic setting, I’ll hang you upside down from a flagpole,” Qui-Gon retorts, and she giggles.  That sound, so innocent and carefree, makes the near-constant pain in his chest ease.  “Can I help you with something, Padawan?”

“Yes, Master,” she says, and suddenly Tano is all business.  “Us Padawans and the older kids in the creche, we all know something’s up, but no one will tell us anything.  I don’t know if it’s because there is nothing to tell, or they think we’re too young to worry about it.”

“I don’t think you’re ever too young to worry,” Qui-Gon says quietly.  “I remember being your age, and worrying about everything.  I don’t think I’ve ever stopped.”

“See?  Then you get it.”  Tano smiles.  “Tell me something.  Tell me what to tell the other kids.  We need to know, Master.”

The ’plast list is still in his hands, albeit a bit crumpled from being gripped in his fist.  He unfolds it carefully, smoothing it out so the molecules in the material re-align until it is pristine once more.  “These are the names of seven planets.  To this list, add Corellia, Dantooine, and Coruscant.”

Tano reads the list, pursing her lips as she does so.  “Er.  Okay.  Ten planets.  Then what?”

“Make sure everyone in the creche who is old enough to read and meditate gets a copy of this list.  Spread it among the orphaned Padawans as well.  Tell everyone to meditate upon this list…and choose their home.”

Tano’s eyes grow huge.  She stares at him, looks back at the list, and then looks at him again.  She is stunned, but instead of asking questions, all she says is, “Okay,” and goes.

The Jedi Council is not so accepting.

They have seen the list, and while some—Depa Billaba, Agen Kolar, and Tholme—are silent, seven other members of the Jedi Council are loud in their protests.  Adi is snapping at them, tired and aching already from the wounds that did so much damage to her body.  It won’t be long before she’s waving her cane at them all.

Qui-Gon is standing by the great windows, observing the clouds and rain that are obscuring the skyline, as he lets the rush of sound wash over him.  He never told Adi that he would have stayed with the Order, even if he had not been asked to join the Council.  He has been a Jedi all of his life; his two final Padawans sacrificed themselves not to protect a government, but the people who lived within it from the threat Sidious represented.  He will never dishonor that sacrifice by leaving the Jedi to founder.  Nor will he allow others to let it happen.

Once he decides that enough of the shock has been vocally purged, Qui-Gon turns away from his contemplation of the sky and says, “Enough.”

The word is not loud, and he does not emphasize the command with the Force, but silence is attained, all the same.  “I did not bring you this list for a debate.  The schism you so fear began years ago, as wiser beings in our Order deduced the truth of the Republic’s decline and made their own preparations.” 

No one says a word, but the shock is clear on many faces.  Only Adi is unmoved; she was there when Yoda’s brief confessional came as a pre-recorded message to Qui-Gon’s comm.  There are many Jedi on the rosters listed as missing, but who are in fact displaced of their own choice. 

“Now is not the time for stubbornness, or willful blindness.  The Republic is failing, and my friends, it fails _fast._ ”

For a long, tense moment, the silence continues, before one of the Councilors stands.  Agen Kolar, who once earned an _avatairee’s_ ire with his blatant arrogance, no longer holds even a whisper of that old haughtiness.  “The Republic has stood for ten thousand years.  That is what I have heard, over and over again, as I watch the Senate dome empty of representation.  I believe that statement to be nothing more than conceit, and conceit is something we can ill afford.  Yes, the Republic has weathered many things. 

“But hear my word:  _weathered_.  Whenever a great stone bears the force of the storm, it loses a bit of itself.  The more storms it sees, the more it loses, until there is nothing left but the illusion of the strength it once held.  That is our Republic, and as all things must pass in time, so must this.”  Kolar returns to his seat with a long sigh.

Ki-Adi Mundi’s replacement to the Council, the Caamasi Knight Ylenic It’kla, stands next.  His eyes are filled with great sorrow.  “I did not think it would happen today—or, in truth, at all—but my belief has changed.  My friends, hear Master Kolar’s words, and know them to be true.  My people witnessed the beginning of the Republic, and we are here now to witness its end.  The Jedi, nurtured by the Caamasi, by the Core Worlds, by all of our allies and friends of old, have only ever been the sand that supported that great stone.  In time, perhaps, we grains of sand will support another great stone, and we will witness new storms.  But for now, there is only the sand, and the pebbles that surround us.  We must spread our reach, to support what that great stone has left behind.”

Depa Billaba speaks next, though she does not stand to do so.  The Chalactan Master recovered from Sidious’s mental assault, but that event, and the loss of Asajj Ventress, sandblasted away much of her serene manner.  “At the thought of leaving Coruscant, of leaving the home of the Jedi, I feel great fear from many of you.  Don’t entertain such foolish thoughts.  A Jedi’s home is wherever a Jedi dwells, be it in a Temple, a station, a star cruiser, or a hole in the damned ground.”

“I would prefer to avoid the hole, if I could,” Tholme says with a tight smile.

Qui-Gon leaves that particular meeting knowing that half of the Council now sees the necessity of it.  The others will simply have to be dragged along…or be the rearguard that remains to become caretakers of the Coruscant Temple.  He’s been running the numbers; the Temple gardens can maintain a much reduced number of residents without having to worry about importing food. 

“The carnivores and omnivores will have to be warned against staying, as the Temple was never designed to cater to livestock of any sort,” Qui-Gon says out loud, and his shadow giggles.

Tano darts out from behind the pillar she was using as a hiding spot, a grin on her face.  “How’d you know?”

“Don’t curse under your breath when you injure yourself while following someone,” Qui-Gon advises.  “How went your mission?”

The Togrutan girl frowns.  “It…went okay, I guess.  A lot of the older kids are scared.”

“And the younger ones?”

She grins.  “Oh, they think it’s a grand adventure.  Most of the littles had their fingers on their choices almost before I could finish telling them about it.”

“They listen to the Force without their own fears getting in the way,” Qui-Gon tells her.  “It’s a gift that we sometimes lose as we grow older.”

Tano gives him a look that, for the life of him, he cannot quite interpret.  “You don’t let them.  Your fears, I mean.”

Qui-Gon halts his steps as he considers what the young Padawan has said.  “I have lived to see all of my fears come to pass, and I’m still here.”  He expects to feel pain when he says the words, or bitter grief, the same burden he had carried for ten years after Obi-Wan’s death.  Instead, there is nothing more than the muted sadness he has felt since he awoke in the Ward with Padmé at his bedside. 

“While I do not consider that to be a gift, it is a…clarifying state of being to find oneself in.”

Tano does not say that she is sorry.  Instead, she follows him as he resumes his journey.  The lifts are a long way from the central spire.  Not for the first time, he wonders at such a daft design. 

At last, Tano says, “I liked him.  He was a bit mad, but in a good way.”

Qui-Gon nods.  “That he was.”  Though saying Obi-Wan was a bit mad may be an understatement.  He has too many memories of his Padawan smiling and walking straight into blasterfire—and that was _before_ Obi-Wan died on Naboo.

Tano takes his hand.  “He went through an awful lot of clothes, though.”

He is surprised into laughing.  It’s the first time he can remember laughing in many lonely months.

Ahsoka Tano does not follow him home, though Qui-Gon suspects that she wants to.  He is beginning to see the potential that Yoda recognized, and it’s intriguing, but he cannot yet discern who her Master is to be.  He doesn’t think it should be himself.

He walks into the kitchen for tea and stops short, staring in bewilderment at the white, powdered mess on the countertop.  The sweetener he keeps for guests has been spilled and spread out, and a message is scratched through the powder.

_not for all time_

There is a second line, messier, below that.

_need more sweetener_

Qui-Gon cleans up the mess with a smile on his face, dumping the powder back into its canister.  The countertop is clean, anyway, and there is no sense wasting sweetener.

 

_A small body of determined spirits, fired by an unquenchable faith in their mission, can alter the course of history._

_-Mahatma Gandhi_

 

It takes three months to arrange for the decentralization of the Jedi Order.  When it’s done, Qui-Gon can’t remember if he slept more than an hour or two during the entire process.  Their numbers are nothing like they were five hundred years ago, but there are still tens of thousands of Jedi.  It’s an administrative nightmare, and a cost expenditure that the Order was never prepared for.

“If we were going out to Temples that were already established, being bankrupt wouldn’t matter a whit,” Tholme says, rubbing at his unscarred eye.  It is only Qui-Gon, Adi, Tholme, and Agen at this particular meeting.  Qui-Gon thinks that if the others are wise, they are sleeping right now.  “We need more funding.”

“But from where?” Agen asks.  “The Senate has already reduced the funding subsidies we get from the Republic down to an amount that’s harsh even with most of us leaving.”

“Piracy,” Adi suggests, and Qui-Gon can tell from the look on her face that she’s only half-joking.  “Force, Agen, I don’t know.”

Qui-Gon shakes his head.  “We’re the only idiots still awake and shuffling ’plast.  Let’s sleep on it.  Perhaps in the morning a solution will present itself.”

“I doubt that, but I will not turn down the chance to rest.  Why should the others have all the fun?” Tholme says, and rises from his seat with a tired groan.  “Curse the lot of you for talking me into taking this job.  I want to go back to hanging with the smugglers.  It’s less work.”

Qui-Gon escorts Adi to the lifts.  He knows that she is in a great deal of pain, more than she should be.

“I’m fine,” she mutters at him, but her brows are drawn together until they are in the lift and descending.  Adi sighs and leans against the wall.  “It’s stress and exhaustion, Qui-Gon.  Nothing the Healers can do until I get the chance to slow down.”

He eyes her.  “So, in about twenty years, then.”

Adi smiles.  “Probably.  Still, it will be good to go home.”

He nods; it was a given that Adi would return to her homeworld to lead the Corellian Temple.  Ylenic It’kla was asked to head the Caamasi Temple by the Caamasi Senator, before Caamas announced their official withdrawal from the Republic.  Depa is taking charge of the Dantooine contingent, in hopes that the serene planet will restore her own flagging spirits.  Yaddle came out of retirement to rejoin the Council months ago, but will soon be making her home on Alaris Prime.  Kit Fisto, with Quinlan Vos’s reluctant help, will share the running of the Alderaan Temple.  Plo Koon has chosen Rhen Var; Agen Kolar has accepted responsibility for Reytha. 

Tholme refused, at first, to be Temple-affiliated at all, until Onderon confirmed the opening of the old Temple in Confederate-aligned space.  Tholme considers leading Jedi in that region to be a challenge on par with his less-than-savory skillset.  He is still trying to convince T’ra Saa to join him.

Qui-Gon hadn’t needed to say a word about Naboo to become its caretaker.  The citizens of Naboo are vocal about adopting the old hero of the Battle of Theed.

Coleman Trebor and Even Piell plan to stay and maintain the Coruscant Temple.  Neither Master wishes to leave; Trebor still believes that the depopulation of the Coruscant Temple is completely unnecessary.  Fortunately, Even Piell is sensible, and will be a good counter for Trebor’s stubbornness.

Qui-Gon escorts Adi to her quarters and leaves with a smile when she threatens to hit him with her cane.  He is almost back to the central lift when he sees a flash of brown cloak out of the corner of his eye.  He turns his head and sees Mace Windu standing a few meters away.

For a moment, he does nothing more than stare.  Mace’s ghost (what the hell else could it be?) stares back, his arms folded over his chest in his typical, unflappable repose.  Qui-Gon walks forward, stops within touching distance, and says, “I’m not lying on the floor having a stroke or something, am I?”

Mace grins, and with a quick jerk of his head, motions for Qui-Gon to follow.

He does so, curious.  The ghost of his friend leads him farther down a long, uninhabited corridor before stopping in front of a storage bay.  It’s unlabeled, nondescript, but there is a tamper-prevention seal on the door that breaks when Mace gestures for Qui-Gon to open it.

The room has only three locked crates, all taller than Qui-Gon, and each requires Council authorization to open.  Qui-Gon glances at Mace, who gives him an impatient look.

The crates are full of mythra, orichalc, and durelium, respectively—precious metals whose value skyrocketed five years ago.  “Fuck, Mace,” he whispers, shocked.  Each crate would bring enough money to run every aspect of the Coruscant Temple, at full capacity, for an entire year.  “Where did you get this?”

The ghost smiles, winks, and disappears.

The metal is enough to get them the extra transports needed, to stock and fuel those ships both for their journeys _and_ to supply the new Temples upon arrival.  It gives the Council the chance to breathe, when otherwise the entire venture would have been overwhelming, and most likely a failure. 

Qui-Gon coordinates not just the preparations for the Naboo Temple, but every new (or re-established) Temple.  It’s exhilarating.  It’s exhausting.  His hands are shaking by the end of the second month.

He starts dreaming about an endless wall of white, of running beside it and screaming names at it because it will not bend; there are no cracks; he cannot get through and everything he wants lies on the other side.

Qui-Gon awakens one morning to the feel of hands stroking his hair.  There is warmth against his shoulders and upper back, the heat of another living body.  His eyes are still closed, protecting him from the light streaming in from a window he doesn’t remember leaving uncovered.

“Take a rest day,” Obi-Wan murmurs, his hands continuing their blissful slide through Qui-Gon’s hair.  “You’re all going to do yourselves in at this pace.  One day of peace will not bring about the Order’s ruin.”

He considers it before agreeing, snagging his commlink from the bedside table to call Adi.

“Oh, I hate you right now,” she grumbles in greeting, sounding about as alert as Qui-Gon feels.

“Rest day,” he slurs back.  “Tell the others, woul’you?”

“Oh, thank the Force,” Adi breathes.  “Tellin’ ‘em.  Going back to bed.”

“Yes,” he agrees, and ends the call before he drops the commlink on the floor.  Tried to make it back to the table, didn’t work, so sorry, carpet is soft anyway.

Obi-Wan is laughing, a quiet, gentle sound.  “Rest, love.”

He falls back into willing slumber.  His hallucinations no longer seem so worrisome.

 

_How it hurts me to know that I will never be able_

_to give you everything I have._

_-Henry Rollins_

 

The new Temple on Naboo is in the south, built on a hill surrounded by clean lakes.  Their neighbors are the part-time residents of the lake houses, and a tribe of Gungans who keep fields in a nearby valley.

Qui-Gon discovers in short order that he is not just a Councilor, not just a Jedi Master—he is _everyone’s_ Master, now.  Those dwelling in the Naboo Temple defer to him as they would to Grand Master Yoda, or to the Head of the Order.  It makes him uncomfortable, being seen as a sole leader instead of part of a greater whole.

No more so is this evident than with Ahsoka Tano, who followed him to Naboo with an unconcerned, cheerful smile.  She still has no Master, and isn’t bothered at all by this.

“Aren’t you worried your education will fall behind?” Qui-Gon asks her, while the other Knights and Masters herd the younglings that came to this Temple into the lake for swimming and sunlight.  He has declared another rest day, now that the Temple is occupied and functional.  He has no desire to revisit those dreams of screaming at that unending blank wall.

Tano shrugs.  “Master Yoda named me a Padawan, even though I never had a Master, and usually you don’t get to be one without the other.”

Qui-Gon smiles.  “Usually.”

Tano nods.  “Do you think my education is slipping, Master?”

He thinks about how the young Padawan has, rather forcefully, taken on the role of Councilor’s Secretary, providing apt solutions for their long list of problems when Qui-Gon cannot.  He thinks about how much time she spends with the children, acting as a guardian and a teacher for the younglings.  He thinks about how she carries herself, and the maturity that shines in her eyes.

“No.”

She grins.  “Being Masterless isn’t so bad.  I learn a lot from everyone.”

There are three Masterless Padawans in the Naboo Temple, actually.  Then there are two, when one is accepted as the apprentice of a young Knight.  Then there is only Tano again, when the other Padawan chooses not to continue her training and returns home to her family.

The week before Padmé’s children are due, Qui-Gon names Ahsoka as his Padawan.  It’s a secret pleasure to see that she is gobsmacked by his declaration.

He is never going to tell her that he figured out why she has remained Masterless for so long.  Her true Master died to stop a Sith Lord.  The least Qui-Gon can do is to make sure Anakin’s Padawan becomes a Jedi Knight.

The twins are born on Naboo the same day that the Alliance’s existence as a new governing body is made public.  Padmé has insisted he be present in the delivery room, a place much more like the Jedi birthing hall than the cold, antiseptic hospital wards on Coruscant.  He shares the space with Padmé’s sister, Sola, and two doulas, both of whom have gentle hands and large healing gifts.  Padmé’s mother and father were banished from the room, for fretting too much and making too many awful jokes, respectively.

The girl is born first, and she is _angry_ about it.  She doesn’t stop complaining until Qui-Gon takes the squalling infant in his arms and gentles her with the Force.

“Please tell me you have managed names,” Sola says, regarding her sweaty, exhausted sister with a grin.  “You know Mom and Dad will be cross if we’re calling them Baby One and Baby Two for a week.”

Padmé scowls, but then turns her attention to the baby girl Qui-Gon is still holding.  She isn’t the first newborn he’s ever cradled, but this is the first time anyone other than a Padawan has been declared his responsibility.  It’s a strange feeling. 

Padmé smiles.  “Ani said that he liked ‘L’ names.  She is Leia.”  She turns her head to regard her son, whose birth was accomplished with far less angry wailing.  “He is Luke.”

Sola doesn’t frown, but she does raise an eyebrow.  “Those aren’t Naboo names.”

“They are Skywalkers, Sola.  They are the legacy of a family I will not allow to be forgotten.”

**Potential**

At the end of the first year, Qui-Gon and his fellow Temple Leaders (no one has called them Councilors since the second month away from Coruscant) communicate by holographic transmission, tentatively declaring themselves a success.  No Temple has foundered, including the Coruscant remnant.  No one is in danger of starvation, or plagues, or assaults from pirates or any standing military.

Granted, one of the Weequay pirate groups did try to assault the Rhen Var Temple.  Plo Koon and his fellow pilots obliterated the invading fleet in a very short, efficient space battle.  Since then, the word among the rogues and criminals is that it is wiser to leave the Jedi the hell alone, no matter how tempting a target the new Temples appear to be.

Qui-Gon still hallucinates, on occasion.  Most of the time it’s just his _avatairee_ , soothing him with phantom touches when he is on the verge of sleep, or leaving messages scrawled in strange places.  He’s seen Mace, who was definitely inspecting the Naboo Temple when Qui-Gon caught sight of him.  Yoda had been a welcome surprise.  Qui-Gon witnessed the ancient Master standing in the grass near dusk, watching the older Initiates and Padawans play swim-and-seek games in the shallow lake water with a contented smile on his tiny face.

Padmé confides that she dreams of Anakin, almost every night.  She asks him if it’s real. 

Qui-Gon smiles and takes her hand.  “Of course it is.”

Then there are the crows.

There are crows _everywhere_ these days. 

Not all of them speak in a way that Qui-Gon can understand, but the number of times he hears crow-speech is still higher than he believed possible.  He points out a flock of the black birds one day while visiting Padmé in Theed at her parents’ home, where she stays when she is not maintaining a private residence in the south.

“Oh, them,” Padmé says, as she notices the birds wheel and turn in the sky, playing on the thermals like feathery children.  “We didn’t have crows when I was a child.  They started turning up during my first tenure as Queen.  We always suspected that a breeder lost a sale and just turned them loose.”

Qui-Gon stoops down and picks up Leia before she can brain Luke on the head with a toy block.  She is the curious one, poking at everything.  Luke is an easy baby, in contrast, as he is content to chew on things and observe the world with his father’s pale blue eyes. 

“Hmm,” Qui-Gon says, snatching the block away from Leia, and then distracting her by floating it in the air just beyond her reach.  She grins in delight.

Luke drops his toy and stares at the block.  “Pretty,” he says.

“P’etty!” Leia agrees.

Qui-Gon studies Luke’s face, and then deliberately releases his hold on the block.  It falls, but slows down and wobbles in the air at his knees.

Luke gives him a stern look.  “No fall,” he says, and the block regains its previous height.

Padmé looks as if she wants to smile, or weep.  Possibly both.  “You bright boy!”

“Bright,” Luke repeats in his serious little voice.

Qui-Gon smiles at the twins before he glances at Padmé.  “Did the crows show up before the battle, or after?”

She blinks a few times, the realization striking her quickly.  “After, actually.  Do you think it’s a coincidence?”

One of the crows lands on a tree limb in the courtyard.  It caws once, and then says, -There are no coincidences.  I mean, _duh_.-

“Manners,” Qui-Gon chastises the bird, which _urks_ at him and then takes off.

Padmé grimaces.  “I don’t even want to know, do I?”

**Luminosity**

 

By the time Ahsoka Tano is Knighted, the entire galaxy rumbles with the stirrings of war.

Qui-Gon is not the only one that finds it to be the height of irony that their enemy is the ragtag remains of the Galactic Republic.  Only about ten percent of the cloned forces remained after that first year, so they were restocked with conscripts and convicts, non-violent offenders being granted a second chance to purge their records with military service.

There were rumors about indoctrination after the Alliance formed, rumors that they all disregarded.  Now, though, Qui-Gon knows that they were not rumors at all.  The Republic military machine calls them traitors, enemies to be conquered or destroyed.

He calls all the Jedi of the Naboo Temple together.  They are five thousand strong, now, as the Force-sensitives of the Chommell sector gathered with them to learn Jedi ways.

“War is coming,” Qui-Gon says, and there is a stir of unease.  “Some of you are old enough to remember that we have seen this threat of galaxy-wide combat before.  We held back that tide, then, and a single battle on Geonosis was the worst of it.

“Believe me when I say, this time there will be no stopping it.  The Alliance is strong, as are our Confederate allies, and the Republic fears that.  The Republic fears _us_.”

“What about the Coruscant Temple?” Ahsoka asks.  “Are they going to be involved?”

It’s a good question; the Coruscant Temple Jedi are still, technically, members of the Republic.  “As of our last communication with Master Swan, the Coruscant Jedi have announced their neutrality in the coming conflict.  They have no wish to fight against other Jedi, or against friends in the Alliance,” Qui-Gon says.

“Crap,” Luke says, and then shrugs when his sister gives him a glare.  “We’re going to be fighting?”  He doesn’t sound happy about it.

“You’re too young, kiddo,” visiting Master Halcyon tells him.  “But I think we’re in for it.  Right, Master Qui-Gon?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Qui-Gon admits, but he refuses to let the depth of his concern be known.  “There will come a day, soon, when we will need to act.  And this is what you must all remember,” he says, and makes sure that he has the focus of all the Jedi in the hall.

“We are Jedi, and we act in defense.  There will be battles, and we will spread out amongst the stars, fighting against a foundering government that has forgotten its way.  We will defend ourselves, our homes, and all those who call the Jedi friends.  _But no more than that._   We are teachers and peacekeepers, and above all, we are students of the Force.  We will uphold the ideals of the Jedi Order, no matter what comes.”

There is a quiet but dedicated murmur of assent.  Qui-Gon looks out upon so many serene eyes and steady smiles, and he is so damn proud of them all.  He is grateful to see it, glad to know that he somehow led them to this point, and didn’t fuck up spectacularly along the way.

Qui-Gon goes to one of the interior Temple gardens when the meeting is over.  There is a sand bed in the center, meant for meditative raking and placement of stone, and he is unsurprised to see that there is a message written into the sand.

_soon_

“I know,” he says, and settles down to meditate.

When the first skirmish breaks out on the Alliance/Republic border, Qui-Gon brings Ahsoka into his office.  He transfers full control of all Temple operations over to her.

“You want me to be in charge?” she blurts in shock, and then her eyes grow wide and indignant.  “You can’t do that!  I want to go fight—”

Ahsoka sees the expression on his face, sighs, and sits down in a chair.  “Shit.  Okay.  Right.  I’m still bad at that.”

“No worse than my last Padawan was,” Qui-Gon says with a faint smile.

“You mean _all_ of them,” Ahsoka counters, shaking her head.  “I’m supposed to be the least crazy of your students, and I still want to go out and wave my lightsaber at the Republic army.”

“I daresay your lightsaber waving would be very impressive,” Qui-Gon says, “but I need you here, Ahsoka.  You’ve been running this Temple since the day we arrived on Naboo.”

“I _helped_ ,” Ahsoka corrects.  “That’s all.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Qui-Gon returns, grinning at her when she gives him a mutinous look.  “I’m putting my faith and trust in you, Knight Tano.  You’re the one who knows how to make sure this Temple continues to function, no matter how long this war lasts.”

She starts to look suspicious.  “You’re going out there, aren’t you?”

He inclines his head.  “Not yet.  But I think I will be, before long.  I have too many years’ experience in coordinating defense to not use those skills on behalf of the Alliance.”

Ahsoka mutters under her breath.

“I am not too old, foolish Padawan,” Qui-Gon says, amused.  “How old am I?”

“Eighty-four,” Ahsoka says without hesitation.

“And how old was my Master, when he tried to start a war against the Republic?”

“…Ninety-three,” she admits grudgingly.

“Hmm,” Qui-Gon says, and sits on the edge of his desk.  “If he can start a conflict at such an _advanced age_ —” Ahsoka snickers, “—then I can do my best to try and end one.  Is that not so?”

“You can’t win with words all the time,” Ahsoka grumbles with a smile.

“No,” he agrees, feeling a touch of melancholy.  “Not all the time.”  He feels the answering chime in the Force, and resists the urge to sigh.

That wasn’t supposed to be a prophetic statement.

Leia and Luke came to the Temple when they were five, a transition Padmé agreed to only, Qui-Gon thinks, because she lives almost within walking distance.  He did not give them their inheritance then, feeling that it was too soon, and that much of the explanation would be beyond them.

They are nine years old, now.  He cannot put it off any longer.  Qui-Gon understands that when he leaves the Temple, this time, he will not see Naboo again.

Luke and Leia Skywalker kneel before him.  Leia is dark-haired and dark-eyed; she looks much more like her grandmother than her mother.  Luke, on the other hand, is damn-near a genetic clone of his father.  The twins are both strong in the Force, and thanks to a Naboo upbringing, fiercely intelligent.  They are both eying the box he has, which is unadorned except for the symbol of the Order.

Qui-Gon cracks the hermetic seal and removes a bundle wrapped in soft cloth.  Doubtless they are aware of what he holds the moment the box is opened, but they are well-trained Initiates, and keep silent, waiting and watching.

He places the cloth on the floor before the twins, pulling back the fabric to reveal two lightsabers.  “This blade,” he points to the straight silver hilt, “belonged to your father.  It is the weapon he carried when he acted in defense of all beings, to stop a Sith Lord who wished only to destroy.”

Luke swallows, hard.  More than his sister, he has lived in the heroic shadow of his father, and is still struggling to come to terms with what might be expected of him.

“This one,” Qui-Gon says, pointing to the darker, curved hilt, “has a history, as it was borne by many hands.  It was once part of a set of two, built by Komari Vosa, Jedi Knight—my sister Padawan.”

They both look up at him, identical expressions of sympathy in their eyes.  All Initiates know the tale of Dooku, and his deep betrayal of his apprentices.

“When Komari was murdered, Dooku gave this blade to Asajj Ventress.”  That was another story known to them; the lost, Darkened Padawan, brought back to the Temple and the Light, only to die, victim of the Sith Lord’s fury.

“Your uncle, Obi-Wan, took this blade with him when he set in motion the Jedi confrontation with Sidious.”  The twins know the public story of their uncle’s part in that battle, but not the entire truth, not yet.  Padmé will sit with them when they are older Padawans, and tell them of a legend.  The twins will hear of the _Avatairee:_   savior of Vima’s People, protector of the Chosen One, scourge of the Sith, and guardian of the Jedi Order.

“They’re for us?” Leia asks, her eyes filled with apprehension.  This is the closest she and Luke have ever been to the truth of their childhood heroes. 

Qui-Gon nods.  “They are.  These weapons are the legacy of your family.  These lightsabers were always meant to go into your hands, and yours alone.”

The twins turn their heads and stare at each other, conferring in the silence of mindspeech and their own personal, tiny facial quirks of twin-speak.

“You should,” Leia says.

Luke relaxes.  “Yeah,” he agrees.  He picks up lost Asajj’s lightsaber, wrapping his fingers around the curved hilt.

Leia takes up her father’s blade, and her eyes widen.  “Wow,” she says.

The twins ignite their new lightsabers in the same moment, filling the room with pale blue and pale green light.

 

_If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life._

_-Oscar Wilde_

 

Qui-Gon gets about three seconds warning before his own death.  He is a Jedi; three seconds is plenty of time to consider the matter.  He can sense that it is unavoidable, that he will not be the only casualty of the massive weapons’ discharge that is about to hit planetary soil, about three meters to the east.  There isn’t time to clear the blast radius. 

With two seconds remaining, he engages the emergency evacuation code built into the commlink he carries.  It won’t save everyone, but it will be worth it even if it just saves a few.  His will be the only Jedi death, as Adi’s teams are fighting much farther to the south. 

With one second remaining, Qui-Gon Jinn takes his last living breath, feeling the slow expansion of lungs, the rush of oxygen through his veins.  The daylight grows impossibly bright, and he closes his eyes.

He doesn’t actually feel anything.  Instead, there is a peace that he remembers, from many years before.

When he opens his eyes, Qui-Gon is still where he had been a moment before, but instead of the churned signs of battle in a muddy field, he stands in a wasteland of rising smoke and ash.

He feels a moment of confusion (what the hell kind of weapon was _that?_ ) and then Qui-Gon sees him.

He’s still wearing black tunics, but there is no sign of the crow’s mark on his face.  His hair is shoulder-length, clean, and free of braids or blood-marked, metallic beads. 

It’s the wide smile on his face, the complete, naked joy in Obi-Wan’s eyes—that’s what makes it real.  “Oh,” he says.

“Yep,” says Obi-Wan, and the smile becomes a grin.

“Oh,” Qui-Gon says again.  He has been waiting for this moment for so long, and now that it’s here, he has no idea what to say.  “I—”

“I missed you, too,” Obi-Wan says.

He finds his voice.  “How could you miss me?  You never went away!” Qui-Gon says with amused indignance.

Obi-Wan laughs.  “Believe me, dumping sweetener everywhere is not the same.”

Qui-Gon steps closer, and it seems even the dead have a sense of smell.  He breathes in, and there is tea and tang and spice and warm male, and it shakes him, makes it feel like the floor is going to fall away from his feet.  “Gods.”

Obi-Wan watches him with a Jedi’s serenity, not manic at all.  “You get used to it.”

Everything catches up to him in a rush.  His godchildren still live.  It feels like he is abandoning his responsibility to them.  “The twins?”

“We can check in on them, if you like,” Obi-Wan offers.

Qui-Gon’s eyes widen.  “That’s possible?” 

Obi-Wan’s smile becomes mischievous.  “Of course it is.  Anything is possible.”

He hesitates.  “But—what you told us before—”

Obi-Wan shakes his head.  “Very few people wind up in that little section of the borderlands, Qui-Gon,” he says.  For a brief, jarring moment, Obi-Wan’s eyes turn that familiar sheen of crow’s amber.

“Only those who will come back,” Qui-Gon says, and his companion nods.  “All right.  Then…what now?”

 Obi-Wan holds out his hand, palm up.  His eyes are clear, a shining blue-green.  “This is the way forward,” he says in a soft voice.  Qui-Gon has heard these words before, long ago, on a wind-swept Temple rooftop.  “Come and live with me?”

“Will we?” Qui-Gon asks, bemused.

Obi-Wan shrugs; the more familiar, manic smile of the _avatairee_ appears on his face.  “Only one way to find out, love.”

Qui-Gon takes Obi-Wan’s hand.  It is glorious connection, real and warm, the touch of familiar skin for the first time in so very long.  He finally begins to smile.

He feels like he’s come home.

 

_Sometimes, a crow shows them the way; because_

_love is stronger than death._

_-The Crow: City of Angels_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Pearl in The Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411621) by [Star_Fata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Fata/pseuds/Star_Fata)




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